


The Unknown Watcher

by arthureameslove



Series: The Unknown Watcher [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, It’s practically YEARNING at this point tbh, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Seriously get a room guys, Slow Burn, Very much an AU, canon typical descriptions of violence, some fun domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 143,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25410928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthureameslove/pseuds/arthureameslove
Summary: The world has changed, and Martin knows the new rules as well as anyone. The monsters come when the sun sets, so you best be home before then. Blast your lights, barricade your doors. Don’t come out until morning. When Martin inadvertently stays out past sunset, he flees his monstrous pursuers and stumbles upon the Magnus Estate, eerie and seemingly abandoned, in the middle of the woods.Inside is a man with a monstrous face and glowing eyes, who insists Martin is the key to turning the world back.(ie a beauty and the beast au—tma style ;))
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The Unknown Watcher [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141703
Comments: 687
Kudos: 773





	1. The Chase

Martin Blackwood knew better than to be out so close to sunset. He knew the stories as well as any man: that those who wandered into the dark never came back, and the few that did returned ignorant of even their own names, so steeped in madness they never recovered. 

He knew this. And yet, the visit to his mother had taken more of his time than he’d expected—with her sudden stroke and the rush of doctors and spitting, hateful curses from her mouth, even when she was at her lowest, and he had thought, shamefully, that perhaps she would _finally—_

He’d stopped that train of thought very quickly.

It had taken longer than he expected. And so he raced the sinking sun back to his home, cursing his own carelessness under his breath, wishing he’d listened to the nurses and just stayed until morning. Curfew sirens blared in the empty streets. He could practically feel the coming darkness pressing at his shoulders like cruel hands, inky tendrils clutching at his shirt. 

He tried to hold onto his optimism. He would reach home before the sun sank completely. He would hide away in the artificial light and barricade his door and be safe from the unknown dark in the only way anyone knew how to, in this changed world. 

But the traitorous voice at the back of his mind nagged at him, digging its claws into the last dregs of his hope. It said _no_ and _you are already too late_ and _you always knew she would be your undoing, didn’t you?_

Still he ran, heavy breaths ripped from his chest as he tore towards the apartment building on the horizon, as if the darkness were a rabid dog on his heels.

Because it effectively was.

As he climbed the stairs, the sun sank behind him. 

When he came upon the floor of his flat, his steps stuttered to a halt. The hall was dimly lit, the landlord too cheap to produce the blaring fluorescents outside that were standard for most buildings, nowadays. Instead, simple, individual bulbs from hanging frames produced weak circles of light on the floor. Darkness leeched at the edges of them. When Martin followed the light’s path down the hall, like flickering stepping stones, he saw the figure, shrouded in darkness, at the other end of the hall. 

The natural light of the sun was gone.

The figure at the end of the hall—too unnaturally still, too calm and at home in the darkness to be human—seemed to tilt what looked like its head. 

The sight struck a nerve, and jolted him into motion. If he could just make it into his flat—blast the lights, barricade the doors—then, he could ride this out until morning. The figure at the end of the hall didn’t move when he did, but still adrenaline sang in his blood. He reached his door, his sweaty, shaking hands fumbling with the key in his pocket. But when he reached for the door, he felt something writhe against his palm.

A worm, grey and glistening, was making its way through his keyhole. Martin let out a cry of disgust at the sight and, almost as if summoned, dozens of worms began flooding their way through the cracks of his doorway, from inside his home.

For a brief moment, he stood frozen, unwilling to believe it. He’d had one chance to survive the night, and he couldn’t reach it.

When the figure in his periphery began to move towards him, Martin got his legs working again. 

He ran. 

* * *

The forest encircled Martin’s little town like a great beast with an open maw, hungry for foolish wanderers straying too far from the light. The branches of the dark imposing trees whipped at his face like angry talons in the wind. 

This was almost surely suicide. 

And yet, Martin knew there was nowhere else he could go where he might be more able to shake the creature from his tail. No neighbors would answer their doors after the sun sank, and no establishments would be open. So he ran, blind and terrified, through the forest that seemed to suck away even the light of the moon, hoping something worse than the woman pursuing him didn’t snatch him up first. 

He heard her voice croak his name, telling him to join her and to join _them,_ the sound coming all at once from behind him and below him, as hundreds of insects burrowed their way to the surface and chittered after him. 

If he’d had the energy to spare, he would have sobbed with the force of the fear in his chest. 

He ran and ran, and fought the urge to give up, give in and just stop to listen to the song they sang, ringing in his ears.

Just as he felt too tired to keep his relentless pace, he broke through the trees to see a clearing. In seeing what it held, his breath caught in his throat. A towering manor sprawled before him, its sinister appearance heightened by the vines and foliage that crept up its walls. Its windows were dark, but its gate...with the force of the wind that night, Martin saw the gate creak slightly inwards. 

He didn’t think twice, and made for it. He seized the heavy iron bars, pushed it open just enough to slip through, and slammed it shut behind him. Words of wrought-iron, curled above the gate, read “The Magnus Estate.”

Martin stared up at them, trembling, entranced like they were the words of a prayer.

When he had gathered himself enough to look down, the woman, horrible, grey skin pockmarked with holes, was there, glaring at him beyond the gate. Martin lurched back, his heart beating so fast it ached in his chest. He thought, certainly, these were his last moments. 

But the woman merely stood there, her mouth curling into a horrible scowl. “You aren’t claimed by The Eye,” she hissed. Her voice rasped, low and garbled and painful. She sounded almost accusatory. But then she leaned closer, looking him up and down, and paused, considering. “Or The Stranger either.” She tilted her head staring at him, as if that...perplexed her.

Martin stared back warily, her motionlessness giving him pause. Why didn't she just pass through the gate? Could she not?

“Come on out of there, little one,” she continued, the words humming, chittering in the air like insects. “We’ll help you, make you whole. We’ll make sure you’re never lonely again.” A worm crawled from a hole in her throat, and Martin fought down bile, staggering back a step, then another.

Seeing him back away, the woman’s expression went flat. “Better to be marked by us than one of them,” she said. 

The woman stood there, staring at him, until a chilling howl split the air, sounding _far_ too close. The woman’s eyes narrowed at the sound, and the look of hate that twisted her face, made Martin’s stomach drop. “Fine. Let The Hunt take you. She’ll make you wish you’d accepted our embrace.”

The ground at the woman’s feet churned, and insects sprang up from the earth, crawling up her skirts and onto her face and into her mouth, and the flood of them was so great that their dark shapes obscured her from view. And then she was gone, bled into the darkness behind her until suddenly there was nothing left to see. 

Martin stood frozen, staring at the place she had stood, before the sound of snarling and a rustling of trees just beyond the wrought-iron gates spurred him into another frantic retreat. The doors to the Magnus Estate were great, imposing things that towered above him. He banged on them, fists hammering as the howling grew louder behind him. With a start, he realized the massive things were slowly moving inward, creaking open as the gate had. He pressed harder, straining. They opened, agonizingly slow, but he could have cried in relief feeling them give. They opened wide enough for him to slip through, and he threw his weight back against them, closing them behind him, cutting off that awful howling. 

His knees gave out with the sudden silence. He sat, slumped, against the doors for a moment, breathing in the musty air of the place, thinking it the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. 

In the quiet, without any immediate threat, Martin allowed himself a moment to rest. He sat, and breathed, and basked in the fact that his heart still beat as it slowed to a steady, natural pace. He listened to the manor creak and groan in the wind. 

He became aware of himself slowly. The cuts on his cheeks stung. The thin dress shirt he had worn for work did nothing to keep out the pervasive chill. His fingers trembled in his lap, numb. He wrapped his arms around himself, a belated attempt to ward away the ice that had already settled in his veins. He was lucky, he supposed distantly, that it hadn’t snowed that day. It had been an early winter.

Martin felt very small, curled up against the doors as he was, when he looked at the great hall around him. The sprawling entryway was flanked by two wings on his left and right, and there was a towering staircase at the other end of the room. The estate looked to have been once grand and opulent, but had fallen into disarray, dreary and dark where Martin could once imagine it glowing and warm. As it was, faded paintings of imposing figures glared down at him from the walls and dust hung heavy in the air. 

Martin swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat, hyper aware of every small sound in the silence. He wasn’t certain what he preferred: an abandoned home or an occupied one. After all, what kind of person would _continue_ to reside this deep in the forest, and leave their doors unlocked after dawn?

If a person at all. 

A wariness settled in the pit of his stomach. Slowly climbing to his feet, Martin took tentative steps further inside. The eyes of the paintings seemed to follow him as he made his way across the cavernous room. He was debating whether or not to call out, when he heard drifting, whispered voices. 

“...get in here?”

“What do we do?”

They sounded...normal. Human. Certainly nothing like the garbled voice of the woman in the woods. He moved forward faster, trying to pinpoint where the voices were coming from. “Hello?”

There was a brief silence. Then the second voice, deeper, more masculine, hissed, “he can _hear_ us! Do you think that means—"

"Shut _up_." The first voice, feminine, more measured and cautious than the other.

They were coming from the second story. He could not see beyond the banister that curled on either end of the landing, as it was shrouded in darkness. But he imagined two figures could be crouching up there, watching. “Maybe we should—“ the second voice continued, only to be cut off.

“I don’t trust this,” the first voice came again. It began to drift, sounding farther away. “We need to get Jon.”

“W-wait!” Martin called up, reaching the imposing staircase. He received no answer. Determined, Martin started up the stairs. The steps groaned under his footfalls, breaking the silence in a way that made him wince. He slowed his ascent, suddenly cautious once again. His hand trailed lightly over the handrail, gritty with dust. 

“Hello?” he called again. The word caught in his throat, fluttering like a bird.

Silence bled from the landing above, thick, cloying. 

Martin swallowed the fear that crept up, tightening in his throat like a vice. He took the next few steps slowly, pausing with every creak under his boots. When he reached the landing, he found it abandoned. There were no figures crouching by the railing, and the flanking halls tapered off into the distance, dimly illuminated. 

Directly before him, however, were two massive, gilded double doors, lit by lantern light on either side. He could see light streamed from inside the room, through the sliver between both doors. This room seemed...alive. It thrummed with light. It was so unlike anything that he had seen in the manor that he found himself drifting towards it, entranced. He traced the ornate handle with his fingers, intensely curious. 

He began to open the door.

And suddenly, there was movement on his right, a hand was clamping down on his arm, and the door was slammed shut. Martin startled violently, turning to look at the hooded figure that had come up beside him. Martin’s panic-addled mind processed the person’s hand, long-fingers wrapping around his arm, dark skinned and covered in scars, before the figure moved closer towards him, their eerie, gleaming eyes the only thing visible in the darkness of their hood. They seemed to catch the light of the lamps on the walls, glinting like twin spotlights, staring at him. 

It must have been that. Catching the light, even though it looked like the light was coming from _within_ them.

The words of the pockmarked woman rang in his mind. _Not claimed by The Eye._

Martin tried to lurch further back, move away, but the person’s grip on his arm was like iron, immovable. 

Fear thrummed under his skin, racketing up the rate of his heartbeat. Perhaps it was the way the figure stood, their body tensed where they blocked the double doors, coiled and postural. Or the way their fingers dug into his arm with an unnatural strength, not allowing him to put any distance between them that would help to calm his ragged breathing.

Or those _eyes._

Before Martin could utter a word, the figure asked in a low, measured voice, “ _who are you?_ ”

The question rumbled deep, scathing. It curled and felt _hot_ in Martin’s ears, buzzed in his skull. And suddenly, Martin wanted to tell him everything, every detail that made him Martin Blackwood.

His mouth was moving without his express permission, eagerly confessing his name, that he was a journalist in town, that he was 29 but lied on his resume and claimed he was 34—

“ _Stop,_ ” the other man growled.

And Martin stopped, even though he'd never meant to speak in the first place. The man's grip on Martin’s arm grew tighter, bruising, and Martin fought down a whimper. _“_ Y-you—you’re hurting—“

“ _How did you get here? How did you find this place?”_

Martin immediately forgot about the pain in his arm. All that was important to him was answering those questions. He felt his mouth moving, spilling out words that he couldn’t remember forming in his mind, but they rang true. Martin answered him. In the moment, it felt like the only thing he wanted to do. He loathed that he needed to breathe because it halted the flow of the words, when all he wanted was to let them escape his throat. He told him about the woman at his flat, that he’d run into the woods and found the estate, looking for shelter.

It was only when he finished recounting what had happened that the wrongness of their interaction fully hit him, leaving him shaky and unsettled.

The other man was staring at him, glowing eyes narrowed in the darkness of his hood, mulling over the words he had stolen from Martin’s throat. He no longer looked stiff, on guard. His shoulders were slumped lower. The change...the change reminded Martin of a cat, having gone from defensive, hunched and angry, to one that was slumped, contented. Like after a good meal.

Suddenly, Martin felt as though asking to seek shelter here would be a very bad idea. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Martin heard himself saying, shakily, “I...I shouldn’t have come here. I’ll just...I can just leave—”

The other man looked up at him, sharply, from where his gaze had drifted, distractedly, to the floor. “Leave?” he said lowly, as if he didn’t know the meaning of the word. Even though Martin couldn’t see his expression, there was a sudden shift in his posture, a straightening of his spine that spoke to a new resolve. His grip on Martin’s arm tightened as he spun around, beginning to pull Martin along with him. “Come with me.” 

“What?” Martin asked breathlessly, mounting dread making his heart pound in his chest. He tried to pull back his arm, but the other man, even while he was smaller and slighter than Martin, had a grip like a vice. An overwhelming, choking panic crept up his throat. “Stop! Let me go!” The other man gave no sign that he heard Martin’s protests, moving forward with a steadfast determination.

Changing tacts, Martin yanked at the man’s cloak, trying to get him to turn. 

The man stopped his procession almost immediately when his hood fell away from his face. 

Martin may have screamed. He wasn’t sure. Because the face he was met with couldn’t in any way have been considered a face. There were no discernible features other than those two glowing eyes. The rest shifted and moved and coiled and fuzzed like static, and the longer Martin stared, his mind trying to make sense of it, the more it _hurt_ , a headache splitting his skull behind his eyes and blurring his vision—

He distantly heard a string of curses, and then the pressure on his arm lifted and the hood was back up, the man’s face shrouded in darkness again. 

As soon as the man’s face was hidden, the pounding pain in his head ceased, almost as abruptly as it began. Martin let out a whimper of relief, fingers curling in his hair where his hands hand flown up to press at his skull, desperate to ease the agony in his head. The man merely looked at him for a moment, those glowing eyes unreadable. Then, the man was reaching for his arm again, wanting to drag him off.

Even the thought of that happening sent terror lancing down Martin's spine. He lurched away, turning and running down the opposite direction. 

There was another flurry of curses behind him, along with the distinct footfalls of someone giving chase. Martin flew down the hall with no thought but the frantic certainty that he had to get away. 

He had nearly reached the end of the corridor when another person rounded the corner. The newcomer’s eyes widened, and Martin, for a moment, thought he was saved. The newcomer had a normal face, a masculine, human face, with high cheekbones and green eyes and dimples. "Woah, easy there," he said, his voice familiar, one of the ones that had drifted down the second story, but then their hands were reaching out at him, fingers spread, and Martin realized they weren’t human hands. The newcomer’s fingers were made of carved wood, connected by hinged metal joints. Marionette’s hands. 

A horrified gasp escaped him as those hands reached for him, and he skidded to a stop.

He was trapped. Couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back.

But there was a door on his left, just behind him.

Martin made for it, and the door opened unimpeded. He rushed into the room, slamming the door shut behind him, and desperately searched for anything he could find to move in front of it, to...what? Slow their entry by seconds? There were no other exits in this room, what looked to have once been an office, all dusty boxes and empty space. Nothing but an ancient desk in the corner that looked to weigh hundreds of kilos, and Martin could already hear the footsteps approaching the door...

Martin retreated to the opposite corner of the room, pressing himself against the wall. His breaths were coming short and thin, and he was shaking violently, terror like ice water in his veins. He stared at the door, certain it was about to burst open at any moment. He wondered, morbidly, if they would even have the decency to kill him when they were done with him. He’d heard of poor souls found in these woods strung up, skinned, but kept alive, _days_ after the fact. 

God, he hoped it would be quick. 

Instead of the forced entry he’d expected, when the footsteps reached the door, there was a brief silence, and then the telltale click of a lock sliding into place. 

Martin could feel the blood drain from his face as he realized what had happened. He heard voices drifting from behind the door. They were slightly muffled, but Martin could still parse out the words.

“Was that really necessary?” There was that low voice again, from the figure with the glowing eyes. 

“You saw him!” the marionette man exclaimed. “He was ready to bolt straight into the night! And we still don’t know how he got here.”

The figure with the glowing eyes spoke up again. “It appears _he_ doesn’t know that either.”

“Did you ask him nicely?” the marionette man replied snidely.

“Open the door, Tim.”

“Jon, hold on,” said a third voice, the other that Martin recognized from earlier, female, assured and competent. “We don’t know if he’s one of The Stranger’s.”

“The Stranger shouldn’t be able to set foot here,” the man with the glowing eyes stated irritatedly, as if he had spoken the words many times before.

Martin found it almost difficult to process them, hung up on the realization that the monster without a face had a name and it was _Jon,_ of all things.

“Unless the scales are shifting. Right?” the woman replied. Then, lowly, “maybe they finally are.”

There was a silence, so long that Martin found the courage to push away from the wall and take steps toward the door. He was nearly there when the other man, Tim, piped up again. “There are windows in that office right? We could just...keep him in there. If he’s dead or worse in the morning, then...we’ll know.”

Martin went cold. If...they’d still be around in the morning then... Even if he survived the night, there’d be no reprieve when the sun came up. These monsters, whatever they were, were immune to the light. Numbly, he reached a hand out to confirm what he already knew. He pushed down the handle of the door. There was a low thunk as the lock was tested and the handle refused to turn more than a fraction.

At the sound, someone’s reply on the other side of the door cut off and it was again very quiet. 

Martin pushed the handle down, again and again, and with each clunk of the lock being hit, his heart sunk further in his chest. His vision blurred, and the despair he’d been trying to suppress since the sun sunk made space in his chest and settled between his ribs. “Let me out,” he croaked, barely above a whisper. His throat was tight with tears. “Oh, God, please, p-please, let me out.” There was no answer, only the faintest shuffling sound, as if someone was shifting behind the door. But he was sure they were still there. Martin pressed his forehead against the door, wrenching his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to fall. “Please,” he tried again, his voice wavering. “I want to go home. Please, I just want to go home.”

He heard a rough sigh on the other side of the door, and a muttered, “Christ,” from what sounded like Tim, but nothing else. Then, the sound of footsteps retreating. 

Martin stared at the door, disbelieving. They’d left. They’d left him there to do God knew what to him in the morning. If he even lived that long, Tim had said. 

The room was achingly quiet now. There was only the sound of his shallow, panicked breathing, and the sobs that escaped his chest, stifled against his hand. 

It was with a final, fading hope that he checked the windows, thinking he might survive the fall. They wouldn’t budge. 

He retreated back to the corner as the minutes ticked away, slumping down and wrapping his arms around himself. The cold air of the room seeped into his bones and settled there, and no amount of shivering could banish it. He stared hollowly at the door, watching as, slowly, it grew so cold in the room that he could just see his breaths appearing in front of his face.

He felt so tired he could weep with it, but the horrible thought of that door opening again while he was unconscious, helpless even to try to defend himself left him feeling nauseated with terror. And so, even while fatigue and despair blurred his vision with tears, he watched the door. 

He didn’t sleep that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on a beauty and the beast AU ;)
> 
> Poor Martin
> 
> Lemme know what ya think! Comments sustain my life force
> 
> Update: we have fanart!!! Check out @art_of_cammie on instagram for more art from this wonderful person <3


	2. The Reprieve

The sun crept up, the light cast inside from the windows behind him, crawling up the wall. It warmed up the room some. Some, but not much. Martin still shivered in the corner, fighting to keep his eyes open, shaking his head violently when it dropped too far forward. Fatigue clouded his head, made his thoughts difficult to hold onto, like trying to catch a fog that just slipped through his fingers. 

Still, he had enough awareness to recognize the irony of his situation. Usually, the sight of the sun would bring relief. It would mean he could emerge from his flat, uncover the boarded windows, turn off the harsh fluorescent lights. It would mean relative safety again, a sharp contrast to how nights usually passed, nowadays. 

He had grown accustomed to the knowledge that there were things that lurked in the darkness. Things that sought to hurt and torment. He had heard the stories, had even heard creatures tap at his boarded, shuttered windows at night. They’d had crooning voices that sounded like his mother, or even the distant memory of his father’s voice, begging him to let them in. 

But the rules, it appeared, had changed. 

Now, the sight of daylight made him sick with worry. The light meant those things that occupied the estate would come back.

Martin marveled at the fact that it _concerned_ him, that they hadn’t just killed him. Because that meant they wanted something else first. And that was almost certain to be something very unpleasant. 

Martin tried to keep his wits about him. He kept his hands clenched tightly around the base of a lamp he’d found, the only hefty, weapon-like thing in the room. But he was so very tired, hunger gnawing at his stomach and his lungs aching with every breath. He felt frail, brittle, like a gust of wind might snap him in half. 

He wanted the terrified wondering to be over. He just wanted to know what they were going to do to him.

He waited and watched the light from the sun glide slowly down the wall opposite the window. 

Martin didn’t hear the footsteps at the door when they came, what felt like hours later, but he heard the sound of the lock turning. He bolted up to his feet, swaying only slightly, adrenaline pumping in his veins. He clutched at the base of the lamp in a death-grip.

Then, the door was opening, and he saw his captors in the light of day. His eyes found the man with the hood first. He looked...smaller in the daylight, more hunched in on himself. Perhaps he would look unassuming, if Martin wasn’t sure, now, that his eyes produced a light all their own. 

Next to him was a woman he didn’t recognize, with dark skin and a hijab, and Martin would almost call her human if it weren’t for the polished wood that crawled up a portion of her left cheek. In front of them was the one with his deceptively human face and the marionette arms, and another woman who had pushed up next to him. 

She...looked human. Fully human—there was nothing strange about her other than a few scars on her bare arms, striking on her dark skin. Her large, brown eyes were kind, staring at him with something like sympathy. This did the opposite of calm him. In fact, he found the sight of someone so...normal looking, in the presence of these... _things_ to be quite worrying. At least he could clearly see what the others were. 

If he had been at all in the mood to laugh, he would have thought the sight of all four of them, crowded in the small doorway, rather ridiculous.

As it was, it was the man with the human face who was grinning wide. “There, see! He looks the same as he did last night, all non-threatening and pitiful. That’s that question solved then.”

Martin blinked, remembering that he had been the one called Tim outside the door the previous night. He spared a hysterical thought as to why monsters went by such run-of-the-mill names. 

Because... _Tim?_ Honestly. 

Then, Tim made a move to start forward into the room towards him. Martin tensed, but he needn’t have bothered. The woman with the hijab put her hand on Tim’s shoulder. 

“Nothing’s solved,” she said, scathingly. When she looked at Martin, she looked at him with cautious distrust. Her voice clicked in his mind as the third voice he’d heard outside his door the previous night, and the other voice that had drifted from the stairwell. “The Stranger could be using humans to do its dirty work. Doesn’t always have to be avatars.”

The other woman in the front spoke up, her tone surprisingly harsh. “Well, frankly, you all bungled this. Bang up job, you lot.”

“ _Sash—_ ” Tim began, but the woman in front—Sash?—cut him off.

“Not a word.” She stepped into the room towards him, and Martin flinched back, wishing he could disappear into the wall at his back. The woman paused in her approach, biting her lip. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “We...we didn’t mean to scare you.”

Martin stared at her, wary, and didn’t answer. 

The woman spoke again, undeterred. Her voice was kind, measured and careful. “Do you like peaches?”

Martin blinked at her, uncomprehending. “What?” He nearly winced at the sound of his own voice. The word was a hoarse, barely there thing that hurt his throat.

The woman did wince at the sound of it, but quickly put up a small smile. Her kindness felt...foreign in this cold place. Eerie, out of place. Her kindness reminded Martin of the sound of his mother’s voice from the darkness outside, tapping at his window. Her presence, impossible, alien. _“I love you so much,”_ the thing with his mother’s voice had crooned. _“Martin, love, let me in.”_

It was because of what she’d said that he’d known it wasn’t really her. 

The woman in front of him now explained, gently, “well, we don’t have much variety when it comes to food here. But we have a lot of canned stuff that luckily won’t turn for a few more years, and we have some chickens in the back if you’d like eggs? You must be hungry.”

God, he was. His stomach felt like an aching pit. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, having woken early for work and then being called to the hospital for his mother... 

“Besides,” the woman continued, “I’m sure you’d like to get out of this room. This part of the house gets really cold, and...well, I’m sure you didn’t have much of a tour, yesterday.”

Martin stared at her, the words _get out of this room_ playing on a loop in his head. He could test how far that kindness stretched, right now. He chanced a glance up to the people in the doorway. Tim was staring at him, looking openly curious, and the woman with the hijab was still eyeing him, her expression hard and closed off. Jon wasn’t looking at anyone, seemingly distracted, lost in thought. 

Martin returned his attention to the woman before him, who still looked so very _kind._ “Please. I want to leave,” he said, priding himself when his voice didn’t shake.

The woman visibly hesitated. The man with the hood, from the doorway, piped up for the first time. “Sasha, we can’t—“

The woman, Sasha, whirled around. “I’m aware, Jon. Thank you.” 

Jon appeared cowed by her snapping at him, slumping back against the doorframe and returning his glare somewhere to the left of the room.

Sasha turned back to Martin. “I’m sorry,” she said, simply. And that was that. 

It wasn’t as if Martin had expected much else, but hearing it still felt like a punch to the gut. He felt dizzy and realized, for a few moments, he’d stopped breathing. “I don’t…” he exhaled shakily, then, swallowing to help the dryness of his throat, he tried louder, “I don’t understand what you want from me.”

Sasha sighed. After a moment, she said, “We need to know how you got here. And why.”

“I already told _him_ that,” Martin said, his voice flat, cold, as he gestured to the hooded figure in the doorway. He didn’t have the energy to raise his voice much. “He asked. So you have your answers.”

Jon had perked up in the doorway, his eyes fixing on Martin. Martin glared back, and felt a perverse pleasure when those eyes looked down. 

“That...may be so,” he distantly heard Sasha saying, “but—”

“No.” Jon was staring at him again. “No, he’s right. A few more carefully worded questions,” he said, unaware or uncaring of Martin’s growing panic as he spoke, “and we’ll be able to rule a lot out. Should just take a few minutes.” Jon took a step into the room, and the panic spiked.

Martin flinched back, holding out the heavy piece of the lamp out in front of him, trying to keep it from shaking in his trembling grasp. He pressed himself into the corner of the room, the furthest point away from all of them. “Stay _away_ from me,” he ground out, punctuating every word.

Jon paused in his approach, eyes on the makeshift weapon in Martin’s hands. Martin guessed though, from his posture, that it wasn’t out of fear. Wariness, maybe. Even though Martin was sure he could be overpowered, especially with Jon’s unnatural strength, but...he could still get a few good hits in. Probably. 

The woman with the hijab spoke up again, arms crossed and watching the scene like a hawk. “Jon...maybe that _should_ wait for later.” She scoffed. “Can’t believe I’m encouraging it at all, but...I don’t think now’s the best time.”

“I’m with Basira on that one,” Tim said. “I mean, look at him. He’s white as a sheet.”

“No thanks to being locked in a freezing room, afraid and alone, for the whole night, I’m sure,” Sasha shot back at him. 

Martin wanted to snap at them, to tell them to stop talking about him like he wasn’t even in the room. Like he was an object and they were debating when it was okay to play with him.

He didn’t. Because if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was keep a stranglehold on his temper and keep his head down. Being quiet, obliging, cautious, in order to survive—

Hell, he’d been doing that his whole life. So he held his tongue. 

“He’s human, right?” Sasha continued, looking at the others in the room. “You can all, at least, agree on that?”

There were some lolling nods from Tim, and the other two, Basira and Jon, didn’t dispute it. 

“Right, then,” Sasha said. She turned back to him, and held out a hand. “Tim and I can take you to the kitchens. And we can stop by my room for a blanket on the way,” she added, eyeing his occasional shivering.

Martin didn’t answer for a moment, considering. Briefly, he eyed the three in the doorway, wondering if he could push past them, if he was fast enough. Sasha was much thinner than he was, though almost as tall, and Martin towered over Jon and Tim. Basira though, she looked strong, tall, and capable. And Martin hadn’t eaten anything in nearly two days and it was sheer willpower that kept him from passing out on his feet. 

No, an escape attempt now wouldn’t be at all smart. 

And, even if Sasha and Tim wouldn’t let him leave, being with them would allow him to see more of the layout of the estate. Get his bearings. For whenever he could next make a break for it, without any watchful eyes on him. 

God, he was tired.

Making a decision, he dropped his makeshift weapon and pushed away from the wall, wrapping his arms around himself. He pointedly did not take Sasha’s hand. 

To her credit, she didn’t look much surprised by this, clasping her hands in front of her instead, giving a strained smile. “Let’s go then.”

“Right-o,” Tim said, clapping his hands, his voice ringing with false cheer. “I make a mean scrambled egg, if I do say so myself.”

Martin followed them out of the room and, though he still had no means of escape, he couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when the chill from that empty room was behind him. The hallway of the estate was well-lit in the day, sunlight streaming in from windows at the end of the hall. Martin could now see the art on the walls, oak flooring scuffed with dust, light fixtures made of brass evenly spaced along the corridor. It screamed old money in a way Martin hadn’t really seen in person. He was used to cramped flats and flickering lights. 

Perhaps, in another time, he may have found the estate beautiful, in that haughty, distant way of old, grand buildings. 

As it was, all he was acutely aware of now were the distinct carvings of eyes on the light fixtures and the certainty that Jon and Basira’s gazes bore into his back as he was led further into the heart of the manor. 

In another life, perhaps he could have immediately seen Sasha’s easy smile and her friendly demeanor as what it appeared to be. If they had met on the street, he would have liked to be friends. Tim, with his incessant humor and his leering grins would have taken a bit more getting used to, but in another life, in another time, if they were... _human..._

Perhaps they could have been friends. 

As it was, Martin spoke very little to them, reluctantly giving his name and not much else, even as they tried, valiantly, to make light, easy conversation. Especially after they passed the great staircase, and Martin caught a glimpse of the entrance to the estate.

Padlocked shut.

* * *

Martin sat, quiet, staring at the plate that had once been topped with canned peaches, and some truly mediocre scrambled eggs. Bland as the meal was, he’d scarfed it down without complaint. With something in his stomach, now, he felt a tick closer to normal. 

Tim and Sasha were chatting as they busied themselves with cleaning the kitchen, still trying to keep up the cheery facade. Martin certainly wasn’t going to help them along with it, but he did appreciate the effort, in a way. 

His fingers played with the fringes of the blanket Sasha had given him. It was a large, plush, woolen thing that threatened to swallow him. He was grateful for it. He wasn’t shivering anymore and his fingers were no longer in danger of falling off, but he still felt...cold, somehow. It was like the chill had reached down into his bones, and it didn’t make him shiver but made him _ache._

Still, he felt the calmest he’d been since...well, since he’d come here. The warmth from the stove still hung in the air and he was, at least, fairly certain the other two occupants of the kitchen weren’t about to attack him anytime soon. It wasn’t trust, by any means, but...surely if these two were going to hurt him, they would have done so already? Martin watched them patter about the kitchen, taking in the way Sasha looked at Tim, all exasperated fondness when he made a particularly bad joke, or the way Tim tried to distract her by playing with the ends of her long, curled hair. 

He really, truly didn’t understand this place.

It was, of course, when he had just allowed himself to relax that Jon walked into the kitchen.

“Spare room’s ready,” the man said, to the kitchen as whole, forgoing any pleasantries. Martin startled when Jon looked to him expectantly, his hands reflexively gripping the blanket closer in a death-grip.

“Spare room?” Martin echoed, after no more seemed to be forthcoming.

Jon blinked at him, glowing eyes owlish in the darkness of his hood. When he spoke his voice was flat, annoyed. “You want to stay in that storage room?”

Martin wanted to point out that he didn’t want to stay _at all,_ but he also vehemently didn’t want to return to that empty, dusty room. “No.”

“Come on then,” Jon said, turning and striding out of the room.

Martin stared after him, fingers twitching against the fabric of the blanket. He pulled it closer to him like a shield. 

“Jon doesn’t bite,” Sasha said, her expression soft and understanding when Martin looked back at her. 

Tim, at her side, added, ”it’s true. Not even if you _ask._ ”

Sasha answered this with a roll of her eyes and a light smack to the back of his head. Tim’s grin refused to let up.

Even still, Martin got to his feet reluctantly, and Sasha’s encouraging smile did nothing to put him at ease as he followed Jon’s path out the door. 

The man in question was waiting for him in the hall, arms crossed. He appeared far away, lost in thought. When he heard Martin approach, he straightened, turning and continuing on wordlessly. 

Martin followed, content to do so in silence. And he did so, quite happily, quietly noting the layout of this wing he’d never seen before, until Jon stopped at a door that Martin assumed was the “spare room” and opened it. He stared at Martin, again seeming expectant.

Martin fought down a renewed feeling of panic at the attention. If he stepped into the room, would Jon follow him in? Pluck whatever he wanted to hear from Martin’s throat like pulling teeth? How far did his powers extend? Could he make Martin do something he didn’t actually want to do? 

...Had he already done so?

Martin decidedly to be uncharacteristically blunt about it. “So are you going to suck whatever information you want out of my head now, or…?”

Jon looked at him sharply, seemingly caught off guard. “I…” The frown was almost audible. “I hate the way you phrased that,” he said, and Martin could almost imagine he had a nose scrunched up in the darkness of his hood.

Only, Martin was quick to remember, there was nothing _human_ under that hood, no features that he could distinguish without pain splitting his skull. “Well?” he said instead, waiting for an answer.

Some tension seemed to return to Jon’s shoulders. “No. I’ve been told it can be...draining. The others were right. It might be prudent for us to wait.” Jon paused, his eyes flickering, and then he added, distractedly, “you really do look quite awful.”

“Gee, _thanks_ ,” Martin snapped, before remembering himself. Hell, he was talking to a monster, not an annoying coworker. Luckily, Jon wasn’t spurred into sudden violence at his tone, like Martin may have feared. In fact, it looked like he actually flinched at the words. Or he could have just been...shifting, Martin supposed. It was difficult to tell when he couldn’t see an expression. It was probably that. “So,” Martin said, an echo of that techiness still in his voice, “you'll peek into my head after a nap, then?”

Jon stared at him silently for a moment. The attention made Martin sweat. Finally, he thought he heard the man sigh. “If you like,” Jon replied. He sounded, suddenly, tired. 

Martin abruptly felt that brief flare of annoyance leave him, in favor of the fatigue he’d been staving off for the better part of a day. “Right,” he breathed. 

He supposed it could have looked like fearlessness, the way he uncaringly brushed past Jon through the doorway of the bedroom, but really it was just...apathy. 

He was too tired to be properly afraid anymore.

Martin had his fingers curled around the door, prepared to close it, when Jon suddenly spoke up. “I...If it makes any difference, I...” Martin waited, holding his breath, intensely curious for what was to follow. There was a long moment of silence. Then, Jon sighed again. “I hope you’re able to get some rest,” he said. 

Martin didn’t respond. He stood there, until he heard the door gently click shut behind him. He waited, expecting to hear another clunking lock slide into place. He didn’t. But he also didn’t hear retreating footsteps either. 

He blew out a shaky breath. Not locked in, but under guard. He didn’t know if he considered it an improvement. 

Though, the room _was_ an improvement—had large windows and a great, massive bed, and a _bathroom_ , which meant a mirror and a door that must _lock—_

He drifted towards it without much thought, but stopped short when he caught his reflection in the mirror above the marbled sink. 

Ah.

Martin almost didn’t recognize himself. His face was streaked with dirt and shallow cuts from his frantic escape through the forest, his white shirt stained and torn. His dark curls hung limply against his forehead and there were dark shadows under his eyes, stark against sickly pale skin. Even his eyes themselves looked washed out, grey instead of blue. 

Martin breathed in shakily, his exhale sounding more like a sob than anything else. Seeing himself, like that... He looked so small. So beaten down, already. So alone.

He hadn’t let himself think about it yet. But he knew. As he stared at his haggard reflection, those thoughts came to the forefront. No one was coming for him. People went missing all the time, nowadays. Work would notice his absence, and report it to Section 31, but without any information, there’d be little that they could do. And his mother...

His mother might not even notice his absence, as bad as she was now, and if she did, well. She might even be glad of it.

He dug his palms against the counter, letting his head drop between his arms. He was alone, in every possible sense.

The awful, looming certainty threatened to overwhelm him. He tried desperately to cast those thoughts away, but his breath kept hitching in his chest, and his lungs ached and shivered when he tried to stifle his sobs. 

He sunk to the ground, putting his head in his hands as the dam broke. He cried, his chest heaving with the force of it, as ragged, wet breaths escaped his mouth. His sobs left his chest like a flood, a gut-wrenching onslaught that had been building in him since he'd seen the woman at his flat. All the grief and the hopelessness poured out of him until his chest ached and his eyes stung, until he was too exhausted to let it go on. 

He was glad he’d thought to shut and lock the door. Less chance of anyone walking in and seeing him like this. 

At least he was sure no one could hear him. He was well practiced in being quiet. 

It took him a few minutes to fully get a hold of himself. Gradually, his gasping breaths evened out and the tears stopped flowing. He scrubbed at his face with his hands, sniffing, and shakily got to his feet. 

He cleaned himself up the best he could, splashing cold water onto his face—immensely thankful there was running water—and drying himself off with a portion of the blanket. His eyes were red-rimmed and he still looked like death warmed over, but, for the moment, he no longer felt like he was breaking into pieces. 

He just wanted to rest. 

He emerged from the bathroom, sighing. His feet already drifted in the direction of the bed, his eyes already drooping closed. He had just put his hands on the bed sheets, sinfully soft, when he caught an unnatural flash of color on the other side of the room. He instinctually glanced up at it and went very still when he registered what it was.

It was a bright yellow door. One he was certain hadn’t been there when he’d entered the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol when you want to yell at the author and tell them to leave Martin alone for two seconds but you’re the author 😂😂
> 
> wow guys I wonder who's responsible for that door being there???? hmmmmmm
> 
> Also did Sasha somehow escape the curse unscathed??? hmmmm questions questions


	3. The Deal

Martin stared at the yellow door, not daring even to blink. It hadn’t been there before. It hadn’t. 

...Had it?

Slowly, Martin pushed away from the bed, watching it warily. He debated calling for Jon, who was likely still outside the door. But what if...if it _had_ been there before…

He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t taken a good enough look around the room when he’d first come in. Still, the door did look very out of place, with its garishly bright color, so neon it almost hurt his eyes. _Surely_ he would have noticed that. 

Martin wondered if it would be particularly stupid of him to open it. Probably. But there was a nagging curiosity bubbling up, begging him to take hold of the handle, to turn it. Just a peek. He felt almost pulled to the door, like a string tied around his ribs was connected to it, the distance shrinking with every moment he stared at it.

Strange. 

Martin bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth. He glanced at the door to the hallway. He wasn’t even sure if he _wanted_ Jon to come back, unsure if the man would take it as some express permission to take a look into his head again. But the presence of the yellow door at the corner of his eye made him decidedly uneasy. He drifted closer to the main door. “I...um,” he tried, his voice barely a squeak. He swallowed, then started again. “H-hey, J—”

In his periphery, the yellow door creaked open. 

Martin let out a high pitched sound of shock, tumbling back in surprise. He stared, wide-eyed, at the occupant of the doorway, who did nothing to calm the racing of his heart. Looking down at him, a curling smile on her face just on the side of too-wide, was a woman wearing a pinstripe suit, tall, dark-skinned with jet black hair that curled in wisps and floated in the air around her. The strands moved as if in the wind, as if underwater. It was eerie, hypnotic. Unnaturally long, wickedly sharp fingers curled around the edge of the door. “Hello there,” she said, her voice ringing with static as she spoke. Martin felt responding goosebumps run up his arms, making his hair stand on end. 

Martin tried to remember to breathe, terror cinching his lungs. He glanced at the door to the hallway again.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call for the Archivist, if I were you,” she said, her voice lilting, almost sing-song. Still, Martin could recognize a warning when he heard one. He looked back at her, wary. He eyed her fingers, like knives, raking at the wood of the door. “Do you know what I’ve always liked about this place?” she continued, eyeing him with glee. “These walls are remarkably thick. You have to be very loud for sound to travel room to room.” She grinned wider, and Martin saw her teeth were all just slightly too sharp. “Jonah’s doing, back when he was in the business of keeping more secrets than he could handle.”

“Wh- _what?”_ Martin forgot his terror for a brief moment, in favor of utter confusion. He had no idea who Jonah was or what he had to do with _anything,_ but the way her lips curled around his name, like sneer, made him wary of pressing the issue. “I...Archivist?” he said, latching onto the next thing that didn’t make sense. “Do...do you mean Jon?”

“I suppose that is his _name,_ yes,” the woman sighed, looking down at him almost disappointedly. “But it’s certainly not what he _is_.”

Martin blinked, quietly filing that information away. He eyed the woman in the doorway. While his heart still hammered loudly in his chest and wariness kept him tense, curiosity bloomed in his chest despite himself. He was surprised at how even his voice was when he asked, “and...what are you?”

The woman’s eyes lit up, pleased. “Ah,” she said, “now _that_ is the right question. As your Jon is the Archivist, _I_ am the Distortion. Now, I suspect you don’t know what that means. Don’t worry. You will. In time.”

Martin fought down a sigh. One more mystery to add to the list. “O...kay. Sure.” He frowned, then asked very carefully. “So...would...I mean, do you like to be called...the Distortion? It...not to be rude, but it is rather a mouthful.”

Her grin curled wider. “Polite and pretty. Certainly a catch.” He spluttered, indignant, but he choked off, recoiling, when she leaned further into the room, outstretching her arm. The tips of her fingers ghosted over his cheek. The brush of them didn’t break skin, but with the slightest pressure, Martin was sure she could cut his face to ribbons. He kept very still, as his heart beat against his ribs. He saw something like satisfaction slide over her face as she watched the terror unfold on his. “I can see why she chose you,” the woman murmured, almost to herself. Martin remained silent, terrified, the questions— _what do you mean, who is she—_ trapped in the cage of his throat.

“You can call me Helen,” the woman decided finally, her pointer finger flicking off the bottom of his chin. The movement made Martin wince instinctively, the tip of her finger having come far too close to the line of his throat. When she pulled her hand away, Martin stifled a sigh of relief. “Don’t worry,” she said, knowingly. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already hurt you.”

Martin fought a shudder at her casual tone, eyeing the flowing movements she made with trepidation. “What do you want?”

She looked down at him, eyes gleaming, for a moment. “I want to help you.”

Martin’s frantic, panicked thoughts stuttered to a stop. “What? Why?” he blurted. 

“Because I think we want the same thing, Martin. Or,” she added, tilting her head and rolling her eyes, “we will. Syntax is always so limiting.”

Martin blanched, his attention caught on what she’d called him. “How…” He swallowed around the dryness of his throat. “I never told you my name.”

Helen’s smile curled. “I have ears. I don’t miss anything that goes on here.” Her smile abruptly dimmed, like a flip had been switched, her face shadowed. “Especially since, thanks to our _Archivist_ ,” she hissed, one corner of her mouth turning up, “it’s not as if I can go anywhere else. Do you _know_ how infuriating it is to be an avatar of _limitless doorways,_ and to be limited?” Her expression twisted, hateful and frightening. “The world is _steeped_ in madness, every night, and instead of being out there, enjoying the bloody party, I am _stuck here._ Now every doorway inevitably opens to another part of this decrepit place, all because your Archivist—”

Martin felt a rush of anger, again hearing the word _your._ This had nothing to do with him. He didn’t even want to _be_ here. None of them were _his._ “He’s not,” he heard himself snap, abruptly, “ _my_ Archivist.”

Her eyes laser-focused on him again, her expression smoothing out so quickly it sent a chill through him. She was quiet, contemplative, for long enough that Martin’s heart began to hammer in his chest again. Fatigue always made his temper fray short, always had words falling from his mouth without input from his brain. Often, as was the case now, he wished he could stuff them back in his mouth and swallow them. 

“No,” Helen said, eventually, that gleam back in her eyes. “No, he’s certainly not, is he? He’s made you cry enough times already, surely?”

“I…” Martin felt his face grow hot, and, predictably, he felt hot pinpricks behind his eyes. Christ, wasn’t there some sound advice about not showing weakness in front of things that could hurt you? He was doing a bang-up job of that so far. 

Helen stepped into the room, closing her door behind her. The sound of it slamming shut made Martin flinch, and he scrambled to his feet, frantically backpedaling as Helen stalked closer towards him. The room suddenly stank of ozone and rubber, and with every step Helen took towards him, he felt as though the room collapsed and pulled him closer. “Would you like to spite the Archivist with me?” she was saying, her grin wide like the Chesire cat. “Wouldn’t you like to _leave?_ ”

Martin desperately tried to tamp down the fear in his chest when he felt the wall dig into his shoulders and Helen’s arms bracketed either side of his head, long fingers splayed like spiders against the wall. She towered over him, almost by a foot, and Martin was anything but short. His breaths came short and shaky, arms wrapped around himself to keep himself small, as far from her as possible. She stared at him, expectant. Now that she was closer to him, Martin could see her pupils weren’t pupils at all, but black spirals, set against the startling whites of her scleras. Hungry. 

“I do want to leave,” he breathed. 

“I know,” she practically purred, sounding almost truly _sympathetic._ Almost. She leaned in conspiratorially, and fear caught in Martin’s throat as the distance closed between them. “But we’ll have to make sure the Archivist doesn’t See.”

It took a moment for her words to pierce the fog of terror in his head. Martin’s brow slowly furrowed in confusion, at the distinct emphasis she used. “What do you mean...See?” he asked, shakily.

She raised a brow. “The Archivist has eyes all over the manor. If he senses something’s wrong, he’ll turn his eyes on it. He could turn his eyes on us right now, if we gave him cause. So I _wouldn’t_ ,” she added, coldly, when his eyes automatically drifted to the door to the hall, “if you want your escape to work.”

Martin reeled with the new information, turning it over in his head. “So,” he began, the word trembling in the air, “he could just...watch me? Whenever he wants?”

Helen tilted her head, an almost nod. “Watch you. Compel you. Used to be able to do more than that but...let’s just say he’s out of practice at the moment.”

Martin looked at the door again, imagining the figure on the other side, those glowing eyes boring into him. Icy fear crawled down his spine. 

“So?” Helen asked, drawing out the word. Her hair curled around her head, gliding through the air like water, and some of it curled under his chin like the crook of a finger, tilting his head up to look at her. “Would you like some help, pet?”

Martin stared at her, wary. He didn’t trust this. Nothing was so simple. Solutions didn’t just...fall into his lap like this. Even if Helen truly hated Jon that much, why would she go out of her way like this? 

“After all,” Helen murmured, almost as if thinking out loud, “who else do you have?” 

The comment stung. Martin thought it was meant to by the way Helen’s smile grew when he flinched. It wasn’t a reason to trust her, but she also wasn’t wrong. The knowledge sat heavy in Martin’s stomach like a rock. 

Everyone in this place looked at him with something like hunger or thinly veiled distrust, or a mix of the two. They wanted something from him, wanted to know _why_ he was there and _how_ , as if it wasn’t as simple as the truth he’d already told. And Jon planned to work that out by pulling things from his head and putting them to the light and picking him apart—

He shuddered. Even the thought made panic rise in his chest. 

After Jon had...done that, though, maybe...maybe they would let Martin go. 

It was a very dim hope. He couldn’t be sure of it, and he was tired of being unsure. Tired of _waiting_ for something to happen to him. Tired of other people’s decisions deciding his fate. 

He wanted to make his own choice, have his own say in what happened to him. And if he made the wrong choice...

Well. At least it would be his. 

Martin narrowed his eyes at Helen, which only made her smile wider. “What would I have to do?”

Helen looked immensely pleased by this, her eyes gleaming and crinkling at the corners as she looked down at him. This did nothing to ease the anxious feeling at the pit of his stomach. “You would need to provide a suitable distraction, one potent enough to draw everyone’s attention away, including the Archivist’s. And _I_ can give you the right doors to walk through.”

Martin frowned. “I create a distraction and just...walk out?” 

“Yes,” she said, simply.

It was all too simple. Martin stared at her, stomach twisting as he considered. He didn’t trust her. But he was sick and tired of waiting.

He was so tired, and the promise of getting out and being free of this place was like the promise of air as he was drowning. 

“I won’t offer my help again,” Helen said, coldness fringing her voice like frost. 

Martin closed his eyes. The fight drained out of him, like breath that left his lungs. “Alright.”

* * *

It was closer to evening now, though still a few hours before sunset. A few hours of him “sitting pretty” in his cell for the afternoon, Helen had assured him, was sure to help keep the rest of the house off their guard. Martin had taken the opportunity to collapse into the large bed, admittedly softer than his mattress at home, and fall into a fitful sleep. Despite his unease that Helen and her door would return, and perhaps slit his throat while he was sleeping just for the glee he knew she would feel from it, the sheer exhaustion from being alert and afraid for nearly two days had dragged him under. 

He had dreamt of dark figures at the foot of his bed, covered in bright white, glowing eyes, staring at him. Knowing him. Flaying every truth from him until they were no longer even his.

Martin had woken up, blearily, to a knocking that matched the hammering of his heart. It hadn’t come from the door to the hall.

Now, Martin stared at the yellow door, cracked open for him, beckoning. He clutched the lighter Helen had given him, squeezing so tightly the webbed carving on the front imprinted in his palm. The yellow of the door in front of him hurt his eyes. “What if it doesn’t work?” he asked.

“It will,” Helen responded immediately. Impatience radiated off her, in the sharp tone of her voice and in the twitching of her fingers. “Take a flame to anything in that room and he’d stop everything, throw himself on the fire to put it out.”

“Why?”

Helen looked down at him, eyes steely, like flint. “Do you need to know why? If it gets you out of here?”

Martin returned his stare to the door in front of him. The door that would lead him to what Helen called The Archive. One step closer to the door that would lead him home. “Will…” His voice sounded small. “Will it hurt him?”

“Do you want it to?” Helen asked bluntly.

Martin thought about what it felt like, to have his thoughts stolen from his head. He thought about what lurked under that hood Jon wore. He thought about the strange tone of Jon’s voice, at the door, earlier that day. _If it makes any difference..._

Did it? 

“I don’t know,” he said, finally, weakly. 

Helen’s eyes narrowed slightly, but otherwise her expression didn’t change. “Then don’t ask,” she said.

Her hand curled around the door, pulling it open wider. She stared at him, expectant.

Martin breathed in a shaking breath. It was dark, beyond the door. The light of his room, with it’s grand, beautiful windows, was sucked up into it. He knew this could be a trick. It probably was. Maybe there was nothing but darkness through that doorway. 

He supposed, there could be worse things. Worse things like _waiting,_ passive, while others decided his fate. This would be _his_ decision.

“What should I burn?” he asked resignedly. 

He heard rather than saw Helen grin her curling grin beside him, her fingers jittering like living things on his shoulder. She said, almost giddy, “anything. _Everything.”_

Her nudging at his shoulder may have provided incentive, but it was his feet that moved forward, his choice to step into the dark, as the door closed behind him. 

And suddenly, another room unfolded before him, a huge room with arching ceilings and rows of shelves and cabinets and desks. There was a moment of vertigo as he stepped inside, a feeling of dizziness as space collapsed and shrank as he stepped through. But then, it was purely the sheer size of the room, illuminated by towering windows encompassing the left wall, that took his breath away. 

Three oaken desks were positioned nearest to him, and beyond those were rows upon rows of shelves that ran all the way to the opposite wall. The wall opposite the windows was less of a wall and more a filing system in itself, crammed floor to ceiling with old folders stuffed with curling papers bound together like parcels. It smelled musty but also, comforting, like shoving his nose into a well-worn book. 

Perhaps the strangest, most eye catching thing, was the book, open on a pedestal inside a glass display at the very center of the room. It stood surrounded by the shelves that made up the body of the room, but caught the light in a way that everything else in the room did not. The glass around it gleamed. 

The sight of it, inexplicably, took Martin’s breath away as surely as a punch to the stomach.

Martin drifted further inside, eyes wide and wondering. He moved past the desks and between the shelves almost as if possessed, his eyes on the centerpiece of the room. The book looked old, worn, but had gilded edged pages that gleamed in the light. The pages themselves were anything but pristine. It looked as though ink had welled up from inside the book itself, dried rivulets streaming from the pages and down the pedestal from all sides. Like the book had been weeping. 

The pages were warped and stained, but as Martin drifted closer, he thought he could make out the small passage that had been seemingly handwritten on the page, blurred as it was with warped ink.

_When Beholding lies in the belly of The Stranger,_

_Doors will open for the one._

_He must take heart through_ _reckless danger_

_So they might all see the sun._

_When I Do Not Know You crosses over_

_Watcher must, by the one, be Seen,_

_Lest Stranger’s power carry over_

_And null the line between._

Martin stared at the words, entranced. The passage felt...important somehow. Vital, almost. It tugged at something under his heart. Without his express permission, his hand reached out and brushed the glass. At the touch, the pages of the book twitched, like someone shivering in the cold. 

Martin jerked back at the sight, the spell broken. His skin prickled with something that he decided was unease, and he retreated. He was here for a reason, and whatever that book was, it was not it. 

Martin traced his hand over one of the desks closer to the main entrance, the one placed between the other two. There were papers and folders scattered on it, but the other two were bare. Martin spread them out on the table, intensely curious. 

Each bundle of papers was topped with a heading. _Statement of Alice Carlyle. Statement of Darren Harlow. Statement of Dexter Banks._ Each was a few pages, each of different, scrawling handwriting. 

Martin wanted to read them. The desire to do so was so strong it took him aback for a moment. 

But he certainly didn’t have time for that. The fact that these...statements were out likely meant that someone was planning to come back to them. Martin gave his head a hard shake and drew himself away. 

Martin needed to make sure no one would burst in on him prematurely, so he turned to the desk to the left, its surface uncluttered, and began to push it along the floor towards the door. The noise it made as the legs scuffed against the floor wasn’t terribly loud, thankfully, but still racketed up Martin’s heart rate. He was sure someone would hear it and come running, but he heard nothing from outside, and as he finally settled the desk against the two grand doors to The Archive, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

It wouldn’t take too much strength to open the doors from the outside—Martin had moved the desk alone, after all—but it could give him a precious few more seconds to flee the room, once his job was done, or give him warning if someone came back too soon.

He looked out onto the room again, at the bulging papers and aged folders. It all looked so...flammable. 

Particularly, the right wall, which was really less wall and more stacks of bulging folders and aged paper. A far cry from the organized shelves sprawling in front of him, with sleek, box-like folders revealing no loose paper at all. It was clear, even by a cursory glance, that the right wall would light quickly and go up in smoke in a heartbeat. 

It would be so simple to go up to the wall, put the match up to a loose page, and leave through the door Helen said she would manifest. He could leave the whole room up in smoke and never look back, forget the nightmare of this place. 

But this room was carefully kept, bright. Cared for. And then there was the strange book at the center. Images of it curling and charring with heat, those words disappearing forever, filled Martin’s head and left him uneasy.

Taking a flame to it all...didn’t sit right with him. 

Martin hesitated for a few moments, before he decided he didn’t have the luxury of dawdling. He had no idea when one of the others would feel like visiting The Archive, and he wanted to be long gone by then. 

He went up to the right wall, grabbing at loose papers at random, gathering them in his arms. He dumped them on the floor, a ways away from the wall itself. He didn’t think the floor, hardwood as it was, would catch easily. Not from a small flame. Martin would set this pile alight, away from everything else. Surely, that would be enough. 

Helen had said as soon as flame touched paper, The Archivist would know. It didn’t have to be a big fire, so long as he set one and delayed their entry. 

Martin flicked open the lighter, his thumb hitting the spark wheel. He stared at the flame, flickering, for a moment, and then let the lighter tumble from his hand onto the pile. The page on top began to light and curl with the heat. The smell of acrid smoke began to waft around the room. 

Almost instantly, Martin heard a shout from somewhere in the estate. A door slamming. More shouting. 

That, he supposed, was his cue. He moved away, scanning the walls lining the room for the tell-tale sign of a yellow door. He tried to keep calm when he didn’t see anything of the kind. “Come on, Helen,” he muttered under his breath, walking the perimeter. “Any day now.”

There was a bang as the double doors of the entrance hit the desk. Martin jumped at the sound, ducking behind a filing shelf. The room was getting hotter. Sweat crawled down his back. He heard swearing behind those blocked doors, and then more banging. 

Martin searched the room, frantic, and finally caught a glimpse of a yellow door, in the back corner of the room. He breathed out sharply, relief buzzing in his veins, and he made for it. The smell of smoke stung his lungs. 

He heard the double doors of the entrance burst open, Jon and Tim swearing, then Jon shouting, “the extinguishers! _Now!”_

Martin glanced back, his hand on the door handle. He could hear the spray of fire extinguishers, could see plumes of CO2 foam between the lines of shelves. Abruptly, where he was looking, Jon came into view. Martin’s breath caught in his chest when Jon’s eyes found him, narrowed and angry, as if he had felt Martin’s staring. 

He froze like a deer in headlights. Jon’s eyes flitted to the book at the center, then seemed to focus behind Martin, on the door, and even from across the room, Martin could see him go stiff, the line of his shoulders drawing back.

Realizing he was about to escape, no doubt. 

Martin set his jaw, and tightened his grip on the handle. Jon reached out a hand, as if trying to pull him back, and he may have shouted something like, “wait! No, _wait_ , you don’t—”

But Martin couldn’t quite hear it over the roaring in his ears and the pounding of his heart as Jon raced closer. So, Martin opened the yellow door and barreled through it. 

He was met with a long hallway, lit by flickering fluorescent lights, and he knew, with a sudden, sickening clarity, that this place didn’t exist within the estate. The carpet under his feet was dull brown, stained. Garishly colored, pinstriped wallpaper lined the walls. The ceiling arched high. A tall, and narrow hallway, spreading out in front of him, turning a sharp, 90 degree right turn.

No doors in sight. 

Martin whirled around, heart in his throat, hand already moving back to the handle he had _just_ touched.

But there was nothing behind him but a blank wall and garish, bright stripes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the overwhelming consensus from the last chapter was that Martin deserves a hug and a nap. I wholeheartedly agree, and I promise our boy will get some comfort and rest in the chapters to come. It’s just...some other stuff has to happen first. Take heart, dear readers. Next chapter should come out in about a week. I'll see you then ;)
> 
> I've also estimated about how long this fic will be, and I've updated the chapter count accordingly. Buckle your seatbelts everyone, this is gonna be a hell of a ride.


	4. The Woman in the Woods

Martin remembered when he was very young, before his father left and when his mother was still whole, she took him to a fair that had set up just outside of town. He had been ecstatic, transported to a world of sweet smelling treats, bright, swirling lights, and bubbling laughter. He remembered the lights in contrast to the darkness of the sky, like manmade stars. It seemed an alien concept, now, to be out in the coolness of the night without fear of what might crawl out of the shadows.

He remembered his mother dropping his hand when she made to pay for food, as he was entranced by an attraction with blinking, spinning lights. He remembered tugging on his mother’s skirt and then wandering towards it, so sure in his mind that she was right behind. He’d wandered up to the entrance, hypnotized by the lights, then by the twisting rooms of mirrors that made him look squat or skinny. He remembered giggling at his contorted reflections, rounding corners inside, drifting further inside. 

He remembered coming across a particularly silly reflection, and reaching back to draw his mother’s attention, only to find his fingers twisting around empty air. 

The smile had dropped off his face as he looked behind, confused, only to be met with dozens of his own reflection. He’d tried to backtrack, calling out his mother’s name, but the path that had seemed so easy to follow was suddenly anything but. He remembered walking a route, certain it was right, and then nearly walking straight into his own reflection, bracketed at all sides by his pale, disquieted expression. 

He remembered his irrational certainty, as the clock ticked on and he ran into dead end after dead end, that he would be lost there forever, never to be found. That he would die there, his twisted reflection his only company. He remembered the feeling of hopelessness, swelling so large in his tiny chest, as he sunk against one of the mirrors, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. The lights blared from behind his tightly shut eyes, the carnival music pulsing too loud for him to even hear himself think. He remembered crying, desperately trying not to meet the eyes of the contorted reflection across from him, because each time he glanced up he could have sworn he’d caught the tail end of a twisted grin disappearing.

His mother had found him a few minutes later, red faced and teeth bared, grabbing his arm and dragging him out. _How could you be so stupid?! Do you know how long I’ve spent looking for you? All I wanted was to have a nice—_ stop _crying, Martin. We’re going home._

He hadn’t thought about that day in a long time. He’d thought it lost in the recesses of his mind, buried beneath all the years that had passed after. 

This was so much worse than that day. 

These hallways closed in on him, no windows or doors in sight to give him any sense of relief, any sense that anything existed outside of these cramped corridors. More than once, he thought the walls were slowly pressing in on him, that they pulsed as if they were alive.

Maybe they were. 

That was the worst of it, knowing that this wasn’t him having taken a wrong turn at a fair, but him having been swallowed by a supernatural door and being forced to wander its digestive tract. That’s what it felt like, not like he was solely wandering, but like he was being _consumed_ by this place. With every turn he felt more drained, more disoriented. Every time he turned, trying to backtrack, he was a little less certain of which turn, right or left, he had taken before. 

He tried to rip at the old wallpaper as he went, create a marker for himself so he wouldn’t travel in circles. As soon as he looked away from the wall, or took too many steps forward, he would look back and see the wallpaper made whole again, no marks in sight. 

He tried keeping his hand on the right wall as he walked, but the hallways he moved through never revealed a door that might let him escape.

He wandered. Panic was a constant companion, at first, upon discovering there were no exits, no light other than the dim, yellow fluorescents. Then hopelessness and exhaustion, as he walked and walked with no sign of any real progress, each hallway a mirror image of the last. Just what felt like hours, or days, or maybe even years of corridors that lead to nothing, garish colors hurting his eyes. 

It didn’t escape him that the longer he spent there, the brighter the fluorescents seemed to become. The wallpaper slowly grew more pristine, the floor less repulsive, as he felt worse and worse. 

He felt like time was a concept that didn’t exist, here, but he could feel the hours stretch on in the aching of his feet, the trembling of his legs. He felt it in the ache of his empty stomach and the fuzziness of his head. 

At the sign of another intersection, he came to a stop, despair settling deep in his chest. Did it even matter which way he chose? Right or left, it would be wrong. Nothingness would meet him again, and he would wander this place until it consumed him entirely. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry about it. This was his own fault, his own choice. 

Here, in these hallways, he’d made what felt like thousand more choices, thousands of turns, this way or that way, and all had been wrong. 

Martin screwed his eyes shut, frustration and exhaustion like living things in his chest, clawing at his lungs. It would be easy, he thought, to sink down, to stop his frantic pace. He’d know where he was if he stopped moving. 

The crooning thoughts sounded like Helen, and the bitterness of the realization made him angry. Here was another cage he had, _again,_ willingly walked into. No more. 

There had to be a way. A way to _know which way_. Martin shut his eyes tighter, tight enough that he saw sparks dance on the backs of his eyelids. Staring out at the endless hallways and the repetitive decor did him no good, it only confused him. So he kept his eyes shut.

Which way, he thought. Which way, which way, _which way, which_ **_way—_**

Martin’s eyes flew open and he stumbled back a step. He had felt his body drift, ever so subtly, to the left, like he’d been caught in a gentle tide. Like something had pulled him, ever so gently. 

He didn’t question it. This was the first sign of direction he’d had that weren’t his own frantic attempts to find order, and he was going to follow it. He flew down the corridor to the right, moving with a renewed fervor, until he met another intersection.

Martin screwed his eyes shut again, pleading in his mind, which way, which _way._ He didn’t feel anything this time around. He tried not to panic. Instead, he screwed his eyes shut harder until he again saw gold sparks. _Please,_ he thought desperately. _Please, show me the way._

After a tense, hushed moment, he felt it again, and the relief that overwhelmed him nearly took him to his knees. 

He moved like that for a few more minutes, focused intensely at each intersection, following the gentle nudges. 

Martin almost didn’t register it, when he turned another cookie-cutter hallway, and nearly ran into a yellow door. 

As soon as he recognized what it was, what it must have _meant,_ he practically threw himself at it, somehow certain if he didn’t act immediately it would disappear. He opened it, hands trembling, desperate for the nightmarish trek to be over. 

When he stepped through, he was met with wind and blinding light, brighter than the dim flickering of those cursed hallways. He held his hand up against what must have been the glare of the sun. Cold stung his cheeks. The world looked bright and white and stunning, snow falling in a flurry from the clouding sky. A sound escaped him. Even he wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or a disbelieving sob.

Martin had never been so happy to be outside in all his life. 

He found himself directly outside the estate, the yellow door having opened up to the left of the main doors. He could see the wrought iron gate in the distance, and the trees of the forest beyond. 

The sun was still up, in the same position in the sky as when he’d left The Archive.

In her sadistic, roundabout way, Helen did eventually get him out.

He was out. His mind caught on the concept like a record skipping. It didn’t feel quite real. He was _free._ The realization had an elated laugh escaping him. He smiled so wide his cheeks ached with it. For a moment, he tilted his head up, his face to the sky, and just marveled at the feeling of sunlight warming his skin and the pinpricks of snow on his cheeks. He breathed so deep his lungs ached with the chill. He breathed out, watching his breath drift in the air in front of him. 

For a moment, he crouched down, enraptured by the wind whistling against his face. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the flow of the wind, in such contrast to the stale, stagnant air of those hallways. He sunk his hands into the snow at his feet, marveling at the cold, marveling that it wasn’t dull carpet.

He was free. His heart sang at the prospect. 

After a few moments, Martin got to his feet and pushed away from the side of the building. He trudged through the shallow snow toward the gate, each step feeling lighter than the last. When he reached it, his hand gripping the freezing metal, he looked back at the estate behind him. He stared at the windows, large imposing things that they were, and thought, for a moment, that he could see the figures inside, looking down at him.

It was nonsense, of course. He was too far away now to clearly make anything out, and he supposed that he had always been paranoid of the feeling of eyes on him, in that place. 

He turned away, and opened the gate. 

Making his way through the forest was slow going, not nearly as frantic as that horrid chase the night before. And he was utterly exhausted now. Helen’s doorways, it seemed, didn’t abide by any rules of time and space. Even though the sun still hung in the same place in the sky, he was certain that he’d spent hours, if not longer, wandering those cursed halls. So Martin made his way slowly, still wary of anyone from the estate following him out, of course, but content at least that he had some safety in the daylight.

He would marvel, afterwards, at how it had somehow not yet sunk in, even then, that daylight meant nothing to creatures not solely of the dark. 

He walked in blissful peace for a few minutes more, until he thought he heard something like a shout coming from the direction of the estate. Fear lanced through him, that they might be coming after him, and he glanced back, heart in his throat. His eyes scanned the forest frantically, searching for any movement.

He didn’t see any. Nothing moved but the leaves in the trees above, shaking in the whistling wind. Martin took a steadying breath, eyeing the position of the sun in the sky. He’d never make it if he was too scared to take more than a few steps forward at a time. 

He had just turned his gaze back to the wood in front of him when his eyes caught on a woman staring at him a ways off, her clothes blending in with the dark trees, her posture rigid. His first instinct had been to call out to her, as she didn’t immediately appear monstrous. But his voice died in this throat. The way she stood, staring at him, didn’t strike him as natural. She looked postural, coiled. Like a predator having caught the scent of prey.

She held a knife.

Martin scarcely dared breathe. She was at least 50 meters away from him. But her eyes bore into him, and even from as far as he was, he could see her breaths, great, heaving things appearing in the air in front of her. He thought he could see her mouth curled in a snarl.

Experimentally, as his heart beat out of his chest, Martin took the smallest step back, snow crunching under his heel. As soon as he made the movement, she barreled towards him.

Martin whirled around and ran. His heart pounded, his breath ran ragged in his throat, his head swam. The wind roared in his ears, snow stinging his face as he pushed on blindly, terrified of the sounds of snapping twigs and heaving breaths behind him. His feet tripped over tree roots, and slipped on wet slush, as he desperately tried to keep his momentum. 

But he was so tired, his head thrumming with fatigue, the air in his lungs too thin. 

He had foolishly thought his path ahead was clear. At this point, he supposed he should have known better. Should have known that optimism always ended up tasting bitter, like ash on his tongue. 

Still, he ran. He ran, but, of course, it wasn’t enough. 

Something slammed into his back and, as he was sent sprawling to the ground, his foot caught on a tree root and bright, searing pain lanced through his ankle. The frozen ground was unforgiving when he landed, jarring the air from his lungs. He saw stars. Before he could even finish taking a grueling breath, a bruising grip clamped down on his shoulder and pushed him onto his back. 

The woman was crouched on top of him, her fingers digging painfully into his shoulder, her mouth pulled into a snarl. Dried blood speckled her face and hung on her clothing, and matted black hair fell over her eyes, but Martin could just make out her pupils, blown wide. They looked almost red, like the reflection of a flash in a photo. Martin stared into them, his hazy, frantic thoughts a mix of horror and curiosity all at once, and nearly missed the glint of metal in the light and the blur of silver in the air.

His hand flew up just in time for the knife to plunge through it. 

The sound that escaped him didn’t even sound human, but he could barely hear it above the sudden ringing in his ears. The agony that lanced through his hand took his breath away. His vision swam and went dark at the edges, and he choked on another scream when the knife was ripped back out. 

He clutched his hand close to his chest, only distantly aware of the slick slide of blood seeping through his fingers, pain thrumming through him like a heartbeat. His vision blurred with it. He hazily saw the knife raised above him again, the red glint in her eyes, like blood itself. 

Martin pressed his cheek into the snow, screwing his eyes shut, waiting for the blow to come. 

It didn’t. Instead, her weight was suddenly ripped off of him.

Martin lay there for a moment, stunned, before booting upright when he recognized the voice that pierced through the ringing in his ears.

It was Jon’s.

He looked up, his vision hazy, coming in and out at the edges as he fought the nauseating waves of pain. Jon’s back was to him, the cape he wore fluttering as the wind as snowfall picked up. He had one hand outstretched at the woman—a few feet away from him, tense and crouched with the bloody knife clutched in her hand—and Martin couldn’t tell if it was a defensive stance or...beseeching, in a way. Couldn’t tell if it was meant to keep her away or reach out to her.

Martin heard Jon say a name, through the ringing in his ears and his head. It sounded ragged, tired. Sorrowful. _“Melanie.”_

As if a switch had been pulled, the woman—Melanie—lunged forward, slashing with the knife. Jon jerked back and to the left to avoid it, narrowly missing another swipe of the knife.

Martin took advantage of the distraction. It was incredibly hard to focus now, with the pain and fatigue and the way the world came in and out as he frantically screwed his eyes open and shut. But he knew he had to get as far away from the two in front of him as possible. He clutched his hand closer to his chest, trying to ignore the wet heat of his own blood, and tried to get to his feet. 

Only, Martin’s ankle twinged when he put his weight on it, and the pain was so sharp and searing that he let out a whimper. And then Melanie’s head snapped to him, her eyes narrowed, and she turned to him, knife like an extension of her hand. Martin’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t run, not like this, not when the ground was lilting under his feet and darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision every time he took a breath. 

Melanie moved toward him, but then Jon moved as well, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. Martin saw Melanie’s grip on the knife change, her fingers expertly flipping the blade, almost a blur. 

And then Melanie was using Jon’s grip on her arm to twist backward towards him, whirling around and plunging the knife into his leg. 

The sound Jon let out was more surprise than pain. But instead of jerking back and away, as Martin no doubt would have, Jon’s other hand flew to the back of Melanie’s neck, preventing her from moving away. 

Jon caught her gaze, and Martin saw the brightness of his eyes intensify and pulse, and then Jon spoke in that tone that allowed for no questioning or argument. The single word that came from him buzzed with power, buoyed by static and supernatural weight. “ ** _SLEEP._** _”_

Even though it wasn’t even directed at him, the sound hit Martin like a wave, crashing into him and sending him to his knees. All the exhaustion that he had held at bay flooded him, thoughts of bed and comfort and blissful rest pressing at him from all sides. 

When his vision flooded back, he saw Melanie, limp on the ground, and Jon standing, unsteady, in the snow. 

Martin didn’t move, didn’t even dare breathe from where he was, crouched in the snow, but Jon seemed to sense his stare anyways and turned to look at him. The light of his eyes wasn’t nearly so bright now. They looked dim, almost flickering, like the bulbs of flashlights on the brink of going out. 

Martin saw Jon lilt on his feet. Then, the light of his eyes disappeared and he crumpled to the ground, like a puppet with his strings cut. 

The clearing was, abruptly, very quiet. 

Instinct took over, urging Martin to his feet even though putting weight on his right leg stung painfully, even though his head was a fog. _Leave,_ his survival instinct screamed at him. _This is your chance. Get out. Get away._

He made it a few paces before common sense came back to him. He was bleeding profusely, drops speckling the snow around him. He could barely walk. His head was swimming and though he was clinging to consciousness with a death grip, he could feel it slowly slipping away, as if it were snow melting in his hands.

He eyed the sun, mostly hidden by clouds in the sky. It was an hour, maybe two if he was generous, before sunset. He could have made it home before, with a little time to spare. But now he was injured, bleeding and exhausted.

And—

He looked back at the two figures in the clearing. At Jon, crumpled in the snow, small, sluggishly bleeding, turning the snow around him a dull pink. 

The man had saved his life. If he hadn’t intervened, the moment he had…

Martin remembered, with clarity, the glint of the knife raised above him, poised to plunge into his chest. Jon has saved his _life._

For a brief moment, he wondered why. It had become clear to him that the occupants of the estate wanted him to stay there. The padlock on the front doors had spoken volumes. Jon saved him...because he couldn’t let him leave _and_ couldn’t let him die?

...Why not?

Martin scowled, shoving the thoughts away. These were questions he _didn’t_ need to answer, he told himself, looking out into the forest. What did he care what the motivations of monsters were? Home was a few miles away if he just committed to the trek, if he just pulled through. 

Martin could do it. He was stubborn enough. 

Martin stared out into the wood, but his feet refused to move.

He heard a shifting behind him and a low moan of pain from Jon. Martin looked back, biting his lip, watching the man’s prone form, gone still again. 

A howl split the air, somewhere in the distance. Martin’s head snapped up at the sound, his wide eyes searching through the trees. He couldn’t see much through the thick flurries of falling snow.

But if there was something else prowling around the estate, something like Melanie…

He looked back at Jon, unconscious in the freezing snow. Another howl sounded, closer now. Unbidden, thoughts of bodies being strung up in these woods, found torn limb from limb with _bite marks_ in them filled his head. 

Martin breathed in, closing his eyes. “ _Fuck,”_ he said, with feeling. He whirled around and raced to Jon’s side. “Okay,” Martin murmured under his breath, as he gingerly hoisted Jon up from under his arms, trying not to injure himself further. “Okay, okay. This is fine. Everything is...gonna be fine—“ He jostled his hand and his vision whited out with pain, nearly dropping Jon. “ _Shit_ , this is stupid,” he hissed, slowly making his way back dragging an alarmingly light Jon through the snow. “I am _so stupid—“_

Another howl. Martin tried to move faster, even as the pain in his leg screamed at him to stop and his hand throbbed, going numb, and his breath came far too short. It felt as though he moved at a glacial pace, each moment sure that some creature would burst through the underbrush and sink its teeth into him.

Still, he kept moving, ignoring the waves of pain that threatened to overwhelm him and the increasingly heavy weight in his arms. His vision swam and, at moments, he considered how easy it would be to give in to the darkness at the edges. Jon didn’t help matters much. It seemed like the closer Martin got to the estate, the more Jon seemed to stir, mumbling and twitching in his arms.

After what felt like an eternity, his back bumped into the metal bars of the gate that surrounded the estate. A breath of relief escaped him, every limb trembling with it.

He made his way through the gate with Jon, more slowly than he would have wanted.

He had just passed through when he heard a rustling in the trees. Quickly, so much so it made him dizzy, he set Jon down and slammed the gate behind them. 

Martin’s energy left him as he sank to his knees, watching the figure that emerged from the trees numbly. It was an animal. A wolf. Though, as Martin stared, he thought it a little too large, a little too disproportionate to be just a wolf. It’s limbs looked too long, it’s eyes too sharply assessing. Martin’s heart picked up as it came closer to the gate. The woman who’d chased him, with her pockmarked skin, had been stopped by the fence, as if it were a barrier she couldn’t cross. But he had no way of knowing if the same would happen here. Martin shook with fading adrenaline and fear, unsure if he could make the retreat to the estate if he needed to. Let alone make the trek pulling someone else along. Darkness crept warningly at the edges of his vision, threatening to pull him under.

Still. He would try. He refused to die passively. 

His good hand clamped down on Jon’s shoulder in preparation, but he jumped when the wolf let out an abrupt growl. He felt the deep rumble of it in his bones, and his eyes caught, terrified, on the glimpse of teeth on display. 

It took a moment to realize that the wolf wasn’t looking at him, but was rather staring intently at his hand, clamped on Jon’s shoulder. The growling continued, until Martin, cautiously, lifted his hand up and away from Jon. The wolf’s teeth disappeared from view immediately. As Martin stared, perplexed, the wolf sank down, settling in the snow with a huff of breath, watching him with eyes too intelligent to be fully animal. 

The wolf didn’t move otherwise, and that was fine with Martin. He would rather not think about the implications of what he’d just seen right then anyway. 

Martin let himself sink back into the snow beside Jon, clutching his still bleeding hand close to his chest. The cold was a pleasant shock, cutting through the pain for a moment. He stared up at the sky, watching snowflakes drift lazily down, as the fading adrenaline leaked out of him. Every time he blinked, the world around the edges grew a little darker, the pain grew a little farther away. He distantly felt Jon stir beside him, but when the man moved and jostled Martin’s injured arm, Martin didn’t even feel it. 

He let the darkness in and felt nothing but relief when it came.

* * *

After that, consciousness came in brief flashes. There was a feeling of weightlessness. Warmth. A smell, like impending rain, like...like The Archive.

The gentle press of the back of a hand on his forehead, velvet pads of fingers brushing across his cheek.

Voices swirling around him, coming in and out, at first too loud and then hushed.

One of them rumbling, low and frantic, pointedly familiar.

Then, the feeling of something soft and warm under him, so much more forgiving than frozen slush. 

Then, blissful, welcome nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loool ok I promise I'm done torturing Martin for now. But I couldn't let him leave that easily. Now we can--say it with me everyone--let Martin rest. Poor, feral, Melanie. Don't fret folks, she'll be back, I'm not gonna abandon my wife like that. 
> 
> Take any typos up with corporate ;) Next chapter should be up in about a week, as usual.
> 
> Side note: anyone else like...super not into mazes?? This chapter was pretty easy to write because I always get that irrational feeling like I'll never make it out of a maze. And MIRROR mazes are so much worse tbh, because they're disorienting to boot. Like, I feel you Martin. Lol, anyways...


	5. The Interlude

_He was so cold. It was as if it were a living thing, pressing against him, closing in on his skin until it_ was _him. It pressed inside him, worming its way into his lungs until it was all he could breathe. It ached. It ached so much. He was so very alone._

 _No amount of shivering or begging or pleading could banish it. All he had was the cold and the mist and the fog, constricting around him like a snake, and he wished he could succumb to it, wished it would just feel_ numb _, but it ached and ached and_ ached. 

_It would have been easy to give in if he could forget the warmth he’d known he had. Years ago. Moments ago. A lifetime ago. There had been warmth and connection and—_

_His blood sang at the memory of it, and it made the cold ache all the more, and he could not cry or catch his breath because his tears crystallized in his eyes and the fog was in his lungs._

_Something touched him then, pressed against his forehead and brushed against his hair. And it wasn’t the cold caress of the fog because it was so hot it_ burned, _and yet the touch was soft, like it was hurting him against its will_ —

“—sira, his fever’s not breaking…” A low rumble of a voice. A note of panic. Concern. Familiar. 

“—more water, he’s sweating buckets. _Go,_ and get some more ice…” A calm voice. Collected. Frustrated.

 _The touch receded and the cold returned with a fervor, and he would have sobbed if he could, truly not knowing which he preferred, to be burned by the heat or devoured by the cold._

_In the end, he didn’t choose, because the darkness took him again anyway. The moment before it took him, he had enough awareness to realize that there was something about this suffering that was familiar._

* * *

When Martin came back to consciousness fully, it was a slow process. He felt warm, comfortable, like he hadn’t in a long time. His body ached, but it wasn’t the sharp bite of pain he’d expected upon waking.

He slowly became aware of someone cradling his hand, the touch so gentle it almost wasn’t there. Prying his eyes open was a difficult thing. The recent embrace of sleep had been warm and welcome, dreamless, and there was a small part of him that worried what the waking world would bring. 

The world came into focus gradually. Martin was lying on a bed, plush and sinfully soft. He recognized the bedsheets as those that were in his room, earlier. His right arm was outstretched, and…

Jon, distinct with his dark hood, sat on the edge of the bed, slowly and with great care finishing the act of winding a bandage in place. It was a surprise that the action didn’t produce much more pain than a slight stinging. Martin supposed it must have been a few days at least since he’d gotten the injury, and that whoever had first dressed the wound must have done so incredibly well. He could remember snapshots of what must have been the past few days, but those memories were hazy, blurred by the rest he’d clearly needed badly. 

He catalogued Jon distantly, able to just look for the first time. There was little he could tell about what Jon was feeling without seeing his face, but he took this time in between sleep and wakefulness to try. The first thing he noticed was Jon’s hands, dexterous and looking like they knew what they were doing, replacing the bandages. Jon kept the touches gentle, clinical. Martin’s eyes skirted over the hood he wore, and noticed, for the first time how it clashed awfully with the clothes he was actually wearing. Where the hood made his appearance rather threatening, the cardigan and slacks ensemble decidedly did not. 

Still. There was something to be said about appearances being deceiving. 

Martin briefly closed his eyes, trying to stifle the anxious feeling that fluttered in his chest at the thought. Part of him was still tired and wanted to merely slip back into the comforting embrace of sleep. There, though he might dream, it was safe. Here...he felt wary. He watched Jon fuzzily, lying carefully still, considering slipping back into unconsciousness.

Perhaps he would have, if it had not been for the next moment. Martin didn’t dare move, almost held his breath. Jon had finished tying the bandage in place, but kept Martin’s hand in his own, staring down at it. Jon’s right hand cradled it, his palm scarred and worn, but his fingertips soft. His left slowly, gingerly traced over Martin’s fingers, ghosting over the bandage that covered Martin’s palm. The touch was so very careful, feather-light. It felt...almost _tender._ Intimate in a way he couldn’t have prepared for.

It made something in Martin’s chest feel tight. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like that. 

The realization stung, almost like a wound itself. Jon was just doing it absentmindedly, probably lost in thought like he always seemed to be. He hadn’t even noticed Martin was awake yet.

It wasn’t his fault that a thing as simple as a gentle touch could feel like someone reaching into Martin’s chest, squeezing his heart until it bled.

Martin gingerly began to move his hand back. At the movement, Jon’s attention snapped to his face, and he released Martin’s hand as if burned. “You’re awake,” Jon observed, after a moment, his bright eyes staring unblinking. They didn’t flicker, or seem dim, like they had in the clearing in the snow.

Jon’s unwavering attention made Martin nervous, the feeling made worse with the man literally looking down at him as Martin lay, vulnerable, on the bed. Martin cradled his injured hand close to his chest, eyeing Jon warily. He slowly began the process of shifting in order to sit up in the bed, to make him feel marginally less helpless. He immediately flinched when he registered Jon reaching toward him out of the corner of his eye. 

Jon pulled his hand back, the line of his shoulders looking, suddenly, tense. 

Martin felt guilty before he could banish the feeling. While it may have _looked_ like Jon was only trying to help him up, how could he know that for sure? Martin was just being cautious, just trying to survive in a lion’s den where he didn’t know the rules. Where one of said lions pulled secrets from his head one day and saved his life the next. 

He just...really, _really_ didn’t want to be touched right then. 

As Martin shifted, the muted pain in his body made itself known, in the slight twinge of his ankle when he moved it and the bruising around his ribs that flared when he took too big of a breath. He took a slow breath, gritting his teeth against the discomfort. He let out a long exhale when he finally sat back against the pillow. 

Martin cast a curious, tired glance at Jon’s hand, which, throughout the endeavor had clenched in the sheets next to him, only now beginning to relax. “You’re in pain,” Jon said, his voice flat. 

Martin glanced at him, confused and wary. He searched where Jon’s face would have been for any hint of an expression, but of course, all he could see were his eyes, like twin stars burning bright. The rest was unnaturally dark. Supernaturally dark? Was there something about the hood that allowed for such darkness? If monsters were real...was magic real too? 

Was that...concern in Jon’s voice? Or annoyance? He wished he could tell. “I...I’m fine,” Martin mumbled eventually, his eyes locked on the bed sheets. “H-how long have I…?”

“About two days. You’ve been awake off and on, but never as long as this.”

He could feel Jon staring at him, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet his eyes. Martin wondered why he was still there, why he had helped him at all. First, out in the woods and now...rewrapping bandages with shocking care. Martin couldn’t make those facts make sense in his mind, couldn’t make them fit the framework that was already there. His presence made Martin uneasy. He didn’t know what Jon wanted from him. 

“That was incredibly stupid. What you did,” Jon continued. 

Martin blinked, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know that already. An absurd urge to apologize welled up in him, instinctive, before he fought it down. Jon wanted to keep him here against his will. Martin wouldn’t apologize for trying to get back home. 

Martin settled on not saying anything. 

Jon just kept staring at him. It was beginning to make that anxious feeling curl in Martin’s stomach. There was only one reason he could think of for Jon’s still being here, his staring, almost expectant. Martin tensed despite himself. He should have known this was coming. He _had_ known this was coming, he had just thought maybe, with his being injured…

Evidently not. 

Martin took a deep breath, resigning himself. “Are you here to ask me your questions?”

Jon merely looked at him for a moment, his head actually tilting like a bird. He blurted, “why do you keep asking that? Like you—like you _want_ me to—“

“Of course I don’t _want you to,_ ” Martin snapped, before he could think better of it. Jon jerked at the bite in his words, seemingly taken aback by the force of them, and ugly satisfaction coiled in Martin’s stomach. The words were ready on his tongue, had been building up along with his frustration and his fear and his confusion. “Why do you think I tried to _leave?_ I was _sick_ of waiting, sick of thinking any minute would be the minute you’d burst through the door and just take what you wanted. You keep threatening me with it, you—you hang it over my head like the blade of a guillotine, and I just want it over with. If you’re going to do it, just do it.”

Jon was silent for a long time in the wake of Martin’s outburst, long enough that panic began to settle in. Martin shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have pushed. Even if it seemed, now, that Jon didn’t want him dead, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t _hurt_ him. Martin’s heart was thumping too fast in his chest. He felt lightheaded, not enough air reaching his lungs.

You…” he heard Jon begin, hesitant. Martin braced himself for a question that he would be forced to answer. “How are you feeling?” Jon said. 

Martin didn’t hear any static or power in the words. Still, he waited for the compulsion to hit, waited for the answer to leave his mouth with a breathless eagerness that he didn’t actually feel. 

Nothing happened. He looked at Jon, caught off guard. It would have been so easy for him to just force Martin to answer. But he didn’t.

He remembered why Jon had waited to do this before. _It can be draining_ , he’d said. Martin had honestly thought, despite the man’s words, it was just more of a torment. Did he actually...care how Martin felt? Martin swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat, as Jon waited patiently for an answer. Martin said, cautiously, “I...I’m okay.” When Jon still just _looked_ at him, Martin added, tentatively, “I...guess I’m a little lightheaded. But other than that, I think I’m fine.”

After a second, Jon gave a jerky nod. “Okay. Okay. Good.” Martin stared at him, dumbstruck, when Jon said nothing else for a long time, looking down at his hands. Finally, Jon asked, “why didn’t you burn more than you did? In The Archive. Given that Helen no doubt provided the opportunity, she…” Jon made a sound somewhere in between a scoff and a sigh. “She surely would have encouraged more destruction.”

The question, as well as it’s lack of compulsion, _again,_ floored Martin. “I...I just didn’t.”

“Why?”

Martin waited a beat. Again, _nothing._ “It...it just didn’t feel right,” he answered honestly. “It was clear The Archive was…” Martin paused, glancing at Jon from the corner of his eye. “Important,” he settled on. “It had...a weight to it, like nothing else in this place. I...it just wouldn’t have felt right.”

Jon studied him for a moment. “If you were with The Stranger, you would have burned it all. Anything to weaken the power of the Eye. But you didn’t.”

That meant absolutely nothing to Martin. But it seemed to mean something to Jon. 

Martin heard Jon take an audible breath, and then Jon said, “if you’re still amenable to me asking questions, I will. But I won’t force you to answer them.”

Martin stared at him, disbelieving. Again, he searched where his face would have been, trying to get a sense of whether or not the words were true. And _that_ was another thing, so he asked, “how...how would you know if I’m telling the truth?”

“I’ll be able to. Be able to Know. It’s less efficient than simply compelling, but—“

“Hold on.” Martin balked, his thoughts snagging on this new knowledge like a record skipping. “You can just _know_ that I’m telling the truth?”

“It’s—well technically I would know if the intention in speaking the words, the emotion behind them was true, really, and it—it's much harder now—"

“So when you _forced_ me to answer your questions that first night,” Martin said, working it out as he spoke. “You didn’t actually have to do that to me.”

Jon took a moment to answer, and when he did it was with uncharacteristic, stuttering ineloquence. “I-I, well, it was—you were trying to get into The Archive and you could have refused to answer and gotten away—I panicked and you have to understand, it’s not like anyone outside the estate has been here in…” Jon trailed off, looking smaller at the growing disgust that must have shown on Martin’s face. 

Martin remembered that initial encounter, remembered the impression of contented satisfaction after Jon had forced answers from him. Remembered shoulders slumping, eyes slitting. He thought of piercing looks, almost _wanting_ , in glowing eyes and spiral pupils. He thought of the endless hallways and of the distinct impression of _digestion._

“I…” Jon was saying, almost to himself at this point, “there’ve only been statements here for so long, and here was someone who had to have viable, credible information, and I...I-I was—”

“Hungry?” Martin ventured, his voice flat. 

Jon cut off abruptly, reeling back as if Martin had struck him. Martin watched, brow furrowed, as Jon took a stuttering breath. Watched as his chest rose and fell, the fabric of the linen shirt under his cardigan shifting. He watched as Jon clasped his scarred hands in front of him, between his knees, long fingers intertwining to stop their trembling. When Jon spoke his voice sounded small. “I’m sorry.”

Martin blinked at the words, taken aback. He stared at Jon, who was staring down at his hands, looking small, hunched in on himself. He seemed so decidedly...human. It was rather overwhelming.

It was hard to hold onto any anger or fear he _knew_ he was entitled to when Jon looked like that, and when, at the moment Martin expected the worst, he received an apology. One that actually sounded sincere. “I…” he started, his voice coming out more of a croak than anything else. When Jon abruptly looked up at him, eyes bright and searching, Martin felt his face flush. The words came out steadier than he felt. “I’m not going to say it’s alright. But...I appreciate that.”

Jon’s responding sigh was audible, but Martin thought it sounded more relieved than anything. “Right.”

“I suppose,” Martin found himself saying, “If there’s not going to be any... _compelling_ involved. I can try to answer the rest of your questions. I’m not sure how well I’ll be able to answer them, but. You can ask. Though, if this is some kind of trick and you’re still going to... _compel_ me, I will be…” he searched for something threatening, then realizing he had little to threaten with, continued tiredly, “very put out.”

This huff of air in response sounded more like a dry laugh. “Noted.” Jon paused for a moment, seemingly gathering his thoughts. Martin’s watched his hands, watched how he tapped his fingertips together as he thought. Martin jerked his head back up when Jon finally spoke. “Did anyone...tell you about this place? Tell you to seek it out?”

Martin frowned. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Jon pressed. “It could have been an offhand comment. A mention of the place and that you should visit, something that you wouldn’t question. Something that would have seemed completely normal at the time.”

That sounded...ominous. Martin scoured his memory for something like that, but he couldn’t think of anything. He hadn’t exactly had any time to take suggestions as to where to go when he was being chased, and he told Jon as much.

Jon peered at him from under his hood, head tilting. “Why were you out so late at night? Surely it’s customary to seek shelter long before dawn.”

There was a part of Martin that didn't want to answer this question, the topic of his mother prickling under his skin like a splinter. Why should Jon know any more about him? He’d already taken more than he had a right to. 

“I...I’d been visiting my mum,” he supplied eventually. At Jon’s expectant silence, he added, “the visit ran longer than expected. There were some...health complications, it just...it took longer than expected.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Surely you could have stayed the night there?”

Martin briefly screwed his eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of his mother’s hissed curses, slung at him like she’d wanted them to draw blood. “Well, I didn’t. I didn’t want to.”

“Why—”

“Look, I _really_ don’t want to get into it.” The words came out in a rush, and he held his breath after he said them. Jon could very easily press the issue. Go back on his word and compel him. He waited, his heart in his throat, as Jon’s eyes narrowed slightly at his words.

But after a weighted silence, all Jon said was a slightly strained, “alright.”

Martin blinked, surprise quickly making way to relief when Jon said nothing else. After a moment, Jon stood up abruptly. 

“I’ll let you rest, then.” 

Martin simply stared, speechless, as the man turned to go. He watched, his mind not quite processing things, until he registered that Jon was walking smoothly, completely unimpeded. That wasn’t right. Again, his thoughts caught on that fact, like the thread of a sweater snagging.

Jon was almost at the door so, on instinct, Martin moved, flinging the sheets off of him with one hand and adjusting quickly to stand. “Wait! You—your _leg,_ I _saw_ you get— _oh._ ”

Perhaps getting up so quickly had been a bad move. As soon as he was upright, the room spun, and his legs didn’t seem to want to hold his weight. Spots appeared before his eyes as his head swam, and he felt himself growing faint. 

Excellent. 

He lilted on his feet, but before he could fall there were suddenly arms around him. “Idiot,” the arms hissed. Or, no. That was the person attached to the arms, whose chest his face was pressed against. They were very warm, whoever they were, Martin thought fuzzily. The steady thump of a heartbeat sounded against his ear. The smell that surrounded him was familiar. Familiar like the smell of rain and...and The Archive. 

Ah.

No sooner had the spots receded from his vision than he felt his feet swept out from under him. Martin was too shocked to say anything about it, much less protest. “I heal very quickly,” Jon was saying, his voice flat and annoyed, but when he placed a hand on Martin’s forehead, the press of his fingers was gentle. Familiar. “You on the other hand, don’t. Your temperature is still too high.”

Martin regained enough sense to start spluttering, “I— _put me_ —“ Jon placed him, not indelicately, back on the bed. “...down,” Martin finished, suitably indignant. He glared at Jon where the man was again stalking toward the door. Martin’s head still spun slightly, confusion warring with irritation when he called after him, “why are you doing this?”

Even though Martin couldn’t see Jon’s expression when he turned, something about the way he tilted his head and stared for a moment told him that Jon was looking at him as if he was a little bit dense. That, and the fact that Jon asked flatly, “would you rather your head have met the floor?”

“I mean, why did you _help me_ ,” Martin clarified techily, his eyes narrowing, and, really, his sense of self preservation had seemingly just decided to up and fly out the window, but Martin just didn’t _care_. “Out there, in the woods. Here, now. Why am I here? What do you _want?”_

“ _Excellent_ questions,” Jon snapped back at him. Martin could see his hackles begin to raise, like a feral cat tired of being poked at. “Considering everything that’s happened since the moment you arrived tells me you’re probably more trouble than you’re worth.”

“So help me _leave_. I answered your questions, now _let me_ —”

“I _can’t_.” Jon practically spat the words like they were a bad taste in his mouth, like he hated admitting to them. 

Martin stilled at the admission, feeling as though they were teetering on the brink of something very important. He just had to take the plunge. 

“Can’t or won’t?” he asked slowly, tilting his head and watching Jon carefully, for any hint of an answer that made sense.

He saw Jon’s grip tighten, white-knuckled, on the door handle, and realized for the first time that he could see something creeping down Jon’s wrist, just where fabric gave way to skin. Something that _didn’t_ look like skin, something that didn’t look like _anything._ Something that hurt Martin’s eyes when he looked at it. 

Jon’s shoulders looked in danger of hiking up to his ears. He looked tense enough that he could’ve been made from something other than flesh and bone, something like stone. Or...something like porcelain, close to shattering.

It was so very human. 

Martin was so transfixed, he almost missed Jon’s answer, spoken raggedly, as if his throat closed over it. “Both.”

And then Jon was gone, the click of the door shutting echoing through the room and through Martin’s head. He’d left before Martin could even decide if he wanted to thank the man for saving his life. 

Martin sat there on the bed, his left hand mindlessly tracing the bandages on his right. He felt strangely hollow, something thrumming inside his ribcage. Perhaps it was his heart. But it felt needier than that. It felt like something pulling at him, pulling out. 

_Both._ Martin wanted to know what that meant. 

There were several pieces of a puzzle missing, and Martin couldn't even see the whole of the picture. What did Jon want from him? Who _was_ he? Who was the woman in the woods—Melanie—and the wolf that protected Jon like it _knew_ him?

Martin didn’t understand, but if he also couldn’t _leave_...he would settle for understanding, he decided. _That_ was the feeling pushing against his ribs, the need to _know,_ so he could feel as though the ground lined up under his feet again. 

He knew, objectively, that though he didn’t fear for his life anymore, at least not from Jon, there were other things to fear. There was always something to fear. But he found, in that moment, that where he could have felt a frustrated fear, the feeling that won out in him was that fluttering curiosity in his chest. 

Sleep claimed him again, eventually, after a long time spent staring and picking at the loose threads of his bandages, as if unravelling them could help this all make sense. 

* * *

He dreamed. He dreamed and while some dreams felt like his own, there were others that didn’t. And yet, at the same time, they were too eerily familiar to be anything else.

That was alright. Dreams were made to be mostly forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He he he hello there
> 
> Looks like Martin is confuuuuuuuused, both about Jon and why he's there ;)
> 
> Not to worry Martin, you'll learn soon enough. The next two chapters will be pretty long and will involve Martin finally figuring out just what on earth is going on. The immediate chapter after this one was particularly fun to write, we get a lot of Martin's interactions with people. Stay tuned for that, should come next week.
> 
> Lemme know what ya'll think! Reactions, guesses, inarticulate key smashes, I love it all. Hope you're all doing well <3


	6. The Understanding

When Martin woke, he woke having dreamt again of that cold, lonely place. It was a strange dichotomy, waking up with that fading memory, but also comfortable in the warmth of the bedsheets and the sun, streaming from the windows behind him. He was acutely aware of the feeling of dried sweat on his skin, and a dull ache in his body, now that his head was clearer. The aftereffects of fever, no doubt. 

And of almost being skewered by a wild woman’s knife in the woods.

He looked down at himself, for the first time taking in the clothes that were thankfully free of blood and decidedly not his own. He tried not to focus on the intrusive question of whose they were or _how_ he’d gotten changed. 

Even in cleaner clothes, he felt utterly disgusting, sweat clinging to his skin like a film and his curls plastered to his forehead. Cautiously, remembering what happened last time, Martin leveraged himself slowly out of bed. His ankle still protested a little, but the pain of it was dulled enough to walk on. He made his way, single-mindedly, to the bathroom. 

Once inside, he pointedly drifted past the mirror to the shower. The water came out a concerning brown color at first, but quickly ran clear. Lukewarm was the best he could get it, but when he finally stepped under the spray it felt heavenly. He scrubbed at his skin and his hair, chasing away the feeling of grime that clung to him. 

When he’d finally stepped out and dressed again (in the same clothes, unfortunately, as he didn’t have any other options), Martin took the time he hadn’t before to study the room. The bed was clearly the centerpiece of it all, enormous as it was, but Martin found himself more transfixed by the arching windows. He stood by the one to the left of the bed, looking out. It seemed to be mid-morning, judging by where the sun was in the sky. The light illuminated the beauty of the trees, shivering in the wind. It made the forest look far less sinister than Martin knew it to be. It had snowed in the night too, judging by the thick coat of sparkling white that covered the grounds below. 

He’d loved the look of town in the winter, with it’s shops brightly lit and promising warmth, bustling with people trying to get their errands fulfilled before the threat of dark. The forest before him was far more still, but the stillness was somehow heavy, foreboding. 

Martin ran a finger over the window pane, which jutted out far enough that he could sit there, his head pressed against the glass if he’d liked. He brought his finger up and looked at it, studying how pristine it was. The room had been dusted, unlike so many parts of the estate Martin had already seen. 

A gilded cage, he thought, rather morbidly. 

He quickly discovered the room didn’t have much else to entertain him. There was an empty desk at the corner (also dusted), and a dresser, empty, (also _dusted)_ , and not much else. 

He paced a little. Stared out the window some more. Picked at his bandages and experimentally trying to wiggle the fingers of his right hand, before quickly deciding to stop, because fucking _ow._

Ultimately, it was the ache of his empty stomach and not the soul crushing boredom that led him to open up the door to the hallway. He did so fully expecting someone to be on the other side, standing guard, but was left utterly surprised when there was no one in the hall. 

Martin wandered almost dazedly in the direction he thought the kitchens were, not having expected this sudden freedom. The hallway he walked was empty and quiet, so it startled him rather badly when a door a ways down opened up. 

His first instinct was to run and hide, an animalistic urge. He quickly took a breath and tamped it down. There was no need to hide. He’d already been unconscious and vulnerable for the last few days and no one had hurt him in that time. 

It helped tremendously, though, that the person who emerged from the room and into the hall was Sasha, hefting a box full of what looked like cassette tapes against her hip. She closed the door, turning. When she caught sight of Martin, she drew in a sharp breath and dropped the box, her eyes wide. “Martin,” she breathed, rushing towards him. “You’re up! You’re looking so much better—how are you feeling, i-is your hand alright?”

Martin blinked at her, feeling a little overwhelmed with the attention. She looked at him, earnest and kind and _concerned_ , and Martin still couldn’t help but be a bit thrown by it. “I...I’m feeling alright. My hand, uh, well, it hurts when I move it, but I figure that’s par of the course, right?” he answered tentatively.

Sasha nodded along as he spoke, her eyes still wide, scanning him over as if she could confirm what he was saying that way. She bit her lip, looking hesitant, then suddenly flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him. Martin stiffened, taken aback, and before he could decide if he was supposed to reciprocate, she pulled away. Martin was horrified to see her eyes were slightly teary, and she was wiping the corners of them with her billowing sweater. “Sorry,” she was saying, as he was just wondering if _he_ should apologize. “I know...I should have asked, I just...I’m glad you’re alright. I…” She paused, then blurted, “ _thank you_ for bringing Jon back. We don’t last very long outside the gates, so...thank you.”

Martin blinked at her, confused. “It...was nothing. I mean, he saved my life...first, so…sorry, what do you mean you don’t last very long?”

Sasha blinked at him, the beginnings of a confused frown creasing her forehead. “What...did Jon not mention it?”

“Uh…”

“Did he not _thank_ you?” 

Martin felt his face flush as he considered how to answer, given that technically he hadn’t thanked Jon yet either. “Um,” he said. “I don’t really think we’re that cordial yet.”

Sasha was practically gaping at him. After a moment, she scoffed, giving her head a hard shake. “I...sometimes, that man is _so_ dense. I mean...you didn’t just save his life, Martin. You saved him from being _undone_. And sure, _maybe_ Daisy could have dragged him back in time, but without Basira there her form would be unpredictable at best, so there would be no telling...” Sasha trailed off, noticing Martin’s bewildered expression. “Sorry. You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

Mutely, Martin shook his head. 

“Well,” Sasha said resolutely, crossing her arms, “you deserve to know.” She looked down at the hallway, then back at him. “Were you headed to the kitchen?”

“I...yes. I was hoping this was the right way.”

Sasha smiled at him, bright and lovely. “It is. Why don’t we talk over some food, then?”

“A-Alright,” Martin answered, and he found he wasn’t just agreeing out of reflex. He _liked_ Sasha, and the lingering suspicion of her, of everyone here, was slowly diminishing, melting away like snow. When she entwined an arm in his as they walked down the hall, he didn’t feel a need to pull away, and as Sasha asked him how he’d been sleeping or if he needed new bedsheets, Martin considered that maybe really it was that Sasha was kind simply for kindness’ sake. 

* * *

He tried very hard not to look at the front doors as they passed, still padlocked shut.

* * *

Martin quickly came to realize Sasha was a very tactile person. She expressed herself in nudges and soft touches, talked with her hands and her body. At first, like with the abrupt hug, it was a little jarring. His mother had never been one for physical affection, and Martin had never been close enough to anyone else, especially in the last three years, to get used to something as natural as casual touch. It didn’t help that during that first, awful night he had spent there, he’d prepared himself for touches that would harm, scald or flay or sting or whatever else it was that met travelers in these woods. 

He hadn’t met that here, though. In Helen’s hallways, sure, and when he’d passed through the gate and into the woods, but not here. 

Unbidden, his thoughts drifted to Jon’s fingers tracing against his palm.

In the one place he’d expected harm, it had never come. Martin found himself acclimatizing to the idea that it might not actually come, like a shock of cold water becoming slowly inviting. 

So, he didn’t jump or cringe away when Sasha touched his arm, looking over his shoulder at the food cooking in the pan in front of him. “You’re good at this,” she observed, smiling at him.

Martin shrugged. “It’s nothing complicated.” It really wasn’t, considering there actually wasn’t a lot by way of food. Sasha mentioned there was a sad little greenhouse at the back of the estate, and Martin had made a mental note to check it out later. Pilfering through cabinets had revealed flour, sugar, some canned vegetables, a multitude of canned peaches, and rice. That, some spices, and what the chickens in the henhouse could provide. Hence the fairly plain fried rice he was cooking. 

As meager as the pickings were, what they had, they had a lot of. If he rationed things out, it could last a while. If it came to that. It looked like there would be a lot of baking and bread making in the future, and he wasn’t particularly upset about it. He rather liked cooking. It took him out of his headspace for a bit, gave him something else to focus on. He knew his way around a kitchen, and knew how to make the most of a few ingredients. 

“Still,” Sasha said, drawing the word out. She leaned against the counter next to him, tucking her hands into her pockets, her grin growing wider. “Better than Tim.”

Martin couldn’t help the snort of a laugh that escaped him. He glanced over at her with a grin. “I didn’t know it was possible to have eggs that were both slightly burned and undercooked.”

Sasha practically cackled. “Oh, I know. I can’t find it in myself to tell him, he just always looks so _proud_ of the things he makes. It would be like kicking a puppy.” After a beat, she leaned closer and mock-whispered, “he burned _pasta_ once.”

The horror must have shown on Martin’s face when he glanced at her, because she broke out into laughter again. 

“I mean it though,” she said, after a moment of silence. “It’s second nature to you, even if it’s simple.”

“I suppose so,” Martin murmured, absently stirring the contents of the pan. It was a bit awkward to do it with his left, but he managed. “It was usually cheaper to cook, and we never had much money to spare growing up.”

“We?” Sasha asked, voice soft.

Martin paused in his stirring for only a moment, taking a steadying breath. “Yeah, my mom and I.”

“Was she the one who taught you?” 

Martin bit down on the bitter scoff that rose in his throat. “No. I, um, I taught myself. Over the years, it was just. Easier.”

Sasha must have caught on to his tone and realized this wasn’t a topic he cared much to talk about, because she said, “well, it looks like you’ve done very well for yourself on the culinary front. Though, admittedly, I don’t have many points of comparison. I won’t lie, I’m not that much better than Tim. Decent baker, though!”

“Really? Baking’s much harder, though. Took me years to get the hang of it.”

“It’s just following directions!”

“If you _have_ directions!”

“When would you bake _without_ directions?” Sasha argued gleefully.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe when you’re in an old, spooky estate in the middle of the woods—”

“We _have_ cookbooks!” Sasha exclaimed, waving her hands. “We _do,_ I’ve seen them, they exist.”

“Well—then, when you’re in a-a rush? To bake something and you don’t have time to find the perfect recipe? Or when you—you’re baking on the go—”

“On the _go?”_

“ _Oh,_ you know what I mean! It’s _so_ tedious to always have to look up the exact proportions for things,” Martin grumbled, though Sasha’s smile was infectious and he soon found himself chuckling a little. 

Sasha’s smile dropped after a moment, however, her brow furrowing. She sniffed. “Is that…?”

Martin frowned, about to ask what she meant, but then he smelled it too and his eyes widened. “ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, whirling back to the burner and taking the pan off the heat. “It’s fine. It’s fine. It—oh. Well. The bottom is _not_ fine. But we can get rid of that.” 

Sasha snorted a laugh. “That’s right! Destroy the evidence. Nobody needs to know you’re not actually good at cooking, Martin.”

“Yeah, well, cooking in _this_ kitchen with _this_ little is like asking Picasso to paint with a toothbrush,” Martin shot back, grinning. “I have no idea how you all haven’t gotten scurvy and died.”

At that, Sasha opened her mouth like she was about to respond, then closed it as if she’d thought better of it, then did it _again,_ a strange look on her face. 

Martin frowned at her, concerned. “What?”

“I...we don’t actually...we don’t really have to eat anymore,” she said, slowly, as if the speed of her words would make them make more sense. “Actually, it’s a good thing, we would have run out of food years ago, if not.”

Martin stared at her, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for her to burst into laughter. The moment didn’t come. “ _What?”_ he squeaked, his voice an octave higher than normal. “ _All_ of you?”

“I....yeah,” she said, giving him a smile that was more of a grimace. “I know. I _know,_ trust me.”

Martin gaped at her for a moment more, then pressed a hand over his eyes, leaning against the counter. He should have known to expect... _something_ like that, what with figuring out Jon seemed to _eat information_ , but Sasha was just so deceptively human, he’d almost forgotten where he was. “You know,” he mumbled, after a beat, “I should really stop being surprised at this point. But...that’s _weird._ That’s _so weird,_ what the _fuck—_ ”

“I know. I know, it is. But, it...I mean, the rest doesn’t actually get any easier to digest, Martin.”

Martin glanced at her, running a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t?” he asked, strangled.

Mutely, she shook her head. “But look on the bright side,” she tried. “You’re already on your way. You know about Jon and Melanie and Daisy—”

“Who is _Daisy?”_ he asked, feeling slightly hysterical.

Sasha opened her mouth, closed it again, then pressed her lips together. She mumbled something. 

Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he closed his eyes and asked, “what was that?” 

She coughed. “The, uh. The wolf.”

The wolf. The wolf with too human eyes that may have actually _been_ human. Martin put his head in his hands. “Oh my god. Oh my _god.”_

Thankfully, Sasha gave him a moment to process. It really shouldn’t have been so jarring to learn these things. He’d long ago accepted the existence of monsters. Everyone had, because it was either that or be one of those stolen away in the night. But he never actually _knew_ much about them, no one did. Even the paper he’d written for back in town mostly just focused on the missing and the dead, not the things that took them. Obituaries and missing persons stories became more common than actual _news._

There were some sketches of the things that lurked in the dark, from those lucky enough to catch a glimpse and survive. But no one had any information as to what they actually were, or what they wanted. Martin only knew what most people did. You got home before sunset. Locked the doors, barred the windows, blasted the lights. Waited, quiet, until morning. Prayed, if you thought it’d do any good. 

And you didn’t go out until morning light. 

He wanted to know more, he did. But he hadn’t expected how much more there could be to know. “I am not awake enough for this,” he grumbled, pressing his palms into his eyes. “I would actually murder for some caffeine.”

“Well, no need for that,” Sasha said, sounding a little amused. “Many late nights working led to my stashing away literal buckets of tea and coffee. We’re set.”

Martin whipped his head up to look at her so quickly his neck protested. “Tea?”

Sasha grinned at him, then ducked to open one of the lower cabinets, pulling out tupperware containers literally _filled_ with tea. Martin actually gasped, reaching out to grab one. “Loose leaf?”

“Of course. I _have_ standards.”

“I think I love you,” Martin told her, clutching the Tupperware to his chest.

“I am irresistible,” she agreed, getting the kettle out. 

Martin had never been more impatient to have tea in his life, and when he finally took a sip of the finished product, sitting across from Sasha at the dining table with a plate of half eaten fried rice in front of him, he let out a frankly indecent noise. 

Sasha snorted into her mug at the sound. “Good?” she asked, grinning at him.

Martin nodded, eyes closed and breathing it in, enjoying the warmth from the mug. After a few moments, he sighed, taking another sip. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Are you?” Sasha asked carefully, raising an eyebrow. 

“No,” Martin said honestly. “But I want to know anyway.”

Sasha nodded, her fingers drumming against her mug. “Well. You already know that monsters exist. What you don’t know is that monsters are part of a greater whole, a greater...power. Powers, really. Monsters, or avatars, we like to call them, are just...extensions of a specific power, a specific _fear_. In an ideal world, all of these powers would exist in something approaching equilibrium, none of them having significantly more influence than any of the others. None able to influence the world more than through individual, isolated incidents.”

“But that’s no longer the case?” Martin guessed. 

“Exactly,” Sasha confirmed. “Now, one of them, The Stranger, is exerting significantly more power than all the others. The Stranger involves the fear of the unknown. And it’s power is growing day by day.”

“The Stranger,” Martin repeated, running the title through his head. “That’s...you all thought _I_ was with The Stranger, before?”

“It was...a concern. You came to us at night, after all, and...night is The Stranger’s domain now.”

“Is...is _Jon_ part of The Stranger? An...extension like you said?”

Sasha sighed. “That’s where it gets a little complicated. The Stranger has its hooks in us, but we weren’t originally connected to it. In fact, this estate is something of a temple to The Eye.”

“The Eye?”

“Another fear,” Sasha clarified. “The fear of being seen, having your secrets laid bare. The fear of being—”

“Known,” Martin murmured, brow furrowing.

“Yes,” Sasha said, her voice lower than it had been before. “You can imagine The Stranger and The Eye clashing might be...particularly destructive. The known and the unknown at war.”

“And you’re losing,” Martin said, and it was less of a guess and more the next logical step. If The Stranger had so much power over the world already. “You...you all can’t even leave this place without being... _undone.”_

When Martin looked back up at Sasha, her expression was grim, drawn. For the first time, Martin noticed the dark circles under her eyes. She hid it well, behind smiles and bright eyes, but she looked as tired as Martin had felt. Maybe more. 

Martin looked back down into his tea, his stomach not as settled as it had been earlier. “How...how many fears are there?”

“Fourteen.” 

Martin snapped his head up to look at her. “ _Fourteen?”_

“Yes. Some actually hypothesize a fifteenth, but there are fourteen confirmed fears. Would you like me to run through them?”

“I...yes. No, wait, I’m sorry, hold on. You said that these fears are like…greater powers, but...what does that mean? Are...are they _gods?”_

Sasha hesitated, but then admitted, “that is the overwhelming consensus.”

Right. Right. Eldritch fear gods. Just another day. Martin pressed a hand against his head, leaning over the table. “The tea isn’t helping anymore.”

“It’s a lot, isn’t it.”

“It...yeah. Christ,” he grumbled, rubbing his hand over his eyes. His ruined hand throbbed. He sighed. “I still feel exhausted. I don’t understand why, it seems like I’ve done nothing but sleep for the past few days.”

“Maybe we should take a break. You’ve been through a lot,” Sasha pointed out. “And you’ve been through Helen’s doorways. That takes a bit of time to recover from.”

“Helen,” Martin blurted, looking up, “she said...she said she was The Distortion.”

“Fear of madness.”

“Oh,” Martin said weakly. “That...that makes sense.”

“Yeah. That one can get pretty nasty. How are you feeling?”

Martin considered this. “I think...I think I need to process all this.”

Sasha stood, collecting her mug and his plate. “That’s understandable. You don’t have to take everything at once. Wouldn’t want your head to explode.”

“Would it?” Martin asked, panicked.

Sasha paused where she’d begun to wash the dishes, looking at him. “No,” she said slowly, carefully. Her stare was concerned. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

“Right,” he muttered, placing his head in his hands again. He felt as though he should be running through what Sasha had shared, but all he could focus on was the headache building behind his eyes. 

After a few minutes, Sasha came up to him again, placing a hand on his shoulder, her brown eyes soft. “Come on,” she said gently. “I’ll walk you back.”

So Martin followed her out of the kitchen, his thoughts a whirlwind in his skull. He found himself asking, out of the blue as they walked, “have _you_ been in Helen’s hallways?”

Sasha looked over at him, surprised. “No, I haven’t. Why?”

“You just sounded like...like you knew what it was like in there.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well. I don’t. But Jon and Tim do.”

Martin blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah, back when she was Michael, and rather new to us.”

Martin blinked, trying to take that confusing information in stride. “Right. Did she trick them into it?”

“I don’t actually remember all of the details,” Sasha answered after a moment. “I wasn’t...I wasn’t actually there.”

“Oh. Where were you?”

Martin looked over at her, curious when she didn’t immediately respond. Her face was turned away from him, angled at the floor. When Sasha finally answered, her voice was strained, her smile faltering. “Away.”

Martin could recognize a tone like that as easily as Sasha could, so he didn’t push, as curious as he was. He let another, more comfortable silence settle, before he changed the topic. “I meant to ask. Are there...are there any other clothes I could borrow? Other than these?” he asked, pulling at the collar of the shirt that wasn’t his. 

“Oh! Oh, yes, sorry, we can stop by Tim’s room. Those are his too, by the way, and they do seem to fit alright, so. That’s good. He’s right up here actually,” she said, pointing to a door coming up on their left.

Martin tried not to let his frown show, noticing that her renewed cheery attitude was a little forced. Though, she did seem to genuinely relax when they came up to Tim’s door. There was no response to her first bout of knocking, or her second. After the second bout, Sasha just rolled her eyes and burst in. Martin blinked at the open door for a moment, but tentatively followed her.

Tim was sprawled in the bed at the center of the room, the only part of him visible above the mass of bedsheets being wild tufts of his brown hair and the back of his shoulders. Martin’s eyes caught on his shoulder blades, where the wood from his marionette arms met with skin, a strange clash evident in burrowing splinters that looked almost painful. He knew it was rude to stare, but it was so unlike anything Martin had ever seen before that he couldn’t pull his eyes away. 

That was, until Sasha, standing at the bedside gave Tim a little shove so he jolted awake. “Ah! What? What,” Tim groaned, turning over and throwing a hand over his eyes. 

“It’s _noon_ , Tim,” Sasha scolded, though there was a fondness in her face when she said it. She dropped a hand to card her fingers through his hair, and Tim sighed at the touch.

“Yeah, well, the boss didn’t have _you_ researching ‘a potential use of the book in the backwoods of New Orleans in 1857’ well into the scandalous hours of the morning. Do you know how hard that information was to find? Still not even sure if it was a genuine, documented use,” Tim grumbled, stretching. Martin focused harder on not looking because Tim was quickly revealing how very little clothing he was wearing, which proved fruitless when Tim gasped, “Martin! You look far more alive than the last time I saw you!”

“I should hope so,” Martin mumbled, looking skyward when Tim swung himself out of bed. “Tim, I need some clothes, and so do you.”

Martin could _hear_ his wide smile. “If you _insist.”_

* * *

About twenty minutes later, Martin left with an armful of new clothes, as well as a cleaner set that he’d changed into at Tim’s behest. (“I must have missed my calling as a stylist,” he’d grinned wolfishly.) The pants were a little bit too tight, but admittedly, not uncomfortable. 

He walked with Sasha back to his door in comfortable silence, until, at the moment he was about to give a goodbye, she gasped. “Shit. Martin, you’re bleeding.”

Blinking, Martin followed her gaze and brought his hand up, distantly noting that he had bled through his bandages. He hadn’t noticed, the pain of it was a constant, dull ache that never really changed. Sasha took his hand gently, turning it over. “Must have been all the movement, today,” she assessed. “I can get some new bandages for you.”

“Alright,” Martin replied. When she turned, he added, “thank you. For...for everything.”

Sasha gave him a small, genuine smile. “Of course, Martin. I’ll see you in a bit.”

When she turned away, Martin did as well, opening his door and stepping back into the room he called his own with a sigh. Only, it wasn’t empty. The door closed behind him as just as he registered Helen sitting on his bed, her legs crossed in her pinstripe suit. 

“Was that Sasha? She’s looking better these days,” Helen purred. She looked him up and down, and added, “so are you, pet.”

Here, Martin thought, was the fear he thought he was free from. It bubbled up in his stomach, had his limbs locking up and his heart pounding in his ears like a drum. 

“Aw, not happy to see me?” Helen asked, pouting.

“Not really,” Martin replied once he got his lungs working again, wondering how he managed to keep the tremor out of his voice.

Helen grinned, wide and curling. “There he is. That’s what I like about you Martin. You may have the others fooled with your little frightened rabbit act, but not me.”

Martin scowled at her. “Right. Because you know me _so_ well.”

“Oh, I’m sensing some anger, some tension,” she said, leaning forward and resting her chin on her palm. “What’s got you tangled up in knots?”

Martin glared at her, embracing the anger that bloomed in his chest because it felt far more productive than fear. “You _tricked_ me.”

“Well, yes,” Helen said, snorting and rolling her eyes as if that was a given. “But I got you out, didn’t I?”

“After a _very_ unplanned detour.”

Helen blinked at him. “I fail to see the problem here.”

“You _fed_ on my _sanity,”_ he grit out. “Didn’t you? Fear of madness and all that?”

“My, my, he is learning fast,” she murmured. Leaning back on her hands, she said, “yes. I _fed_ on you, if you want to be crass about it. But I _also_ let you flex your muscles and find your way out, I might add. I wouldn’t have done anything more, I promise.” Her smile twitched. “I have a vested interest in your continued survival, Martin.”

Martin stared at her. “ _Why?”_

She grinned wider. “Because of what you _are._ ” 

“And _what_ am I?” Martin growled. 

The room distorted in on itself, bending in an impossible way, and when Martin blinked it had righted itself again, with Helen standing right in front of him. “The answer,” she said, running her long fingers through his hair.

He fought the instinctive urge to recoil. Just because she said she didn’t want him dead, didn’t mean she wouldn’t harm him. Clearly. His time in her hallways told him that. He could very easily leave with new injuries if he played this wrong, so he remained carefully still as her razor sharp fingers brushed his scalp. He exhaled roughly, frustrated. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Helen said, her fingers curling under his chin and yanking his head up to look her in the eye, “you’re going to right the wrong, and wipe away the debt.” Her voice sounded clear as a bell, free of static, and imbued with a weight he didn’t understand.

Martin held carefully still in her hold, the words ringing in his ears. The razor tips of her fingers pricked at the skin on his jaw. His heartbeat hammered in his throat, knocking against her freezing cold skin. He swallowed, carefully, around the sudden dryness of his mouth. “What—”

The door burst open behind him, and Helen’s hand dropped away before Martin could accidentally skewer himself on it as he jumped in surprise. Martin whirled around to see the occupant in the doorway.

“Archivist,” Helen greeted flatly.

“Helen,” Jon said back, with just as much warmth. He strolled into the room, straight backed, and unflinchingly placed himself in front of Martin, staring Helen down. “Just leaving, were you?” Jon asked her, the question barbed like a weapon.

Martin watched the exchange, wide eyed, over Jon’s shoulder, taking a cautious step back. Helen’s face twitched, her smile looking like it had been plastered on as her eyes burned with clear hate. “Oh, Archivist,” she said, through grit teeth. “You really don’t know how lucky you are. Just remember, he’s not _your_ toy to play with.” Her gaze shifted to Martin, the look in her eyes so much colder than it had moments ago it made him shiver. “Do be careful, Martin,” she said lightly, while the words were anything but. 

The room contorted again, and with the click of a yellow door in the corner, Helen was gone. 

Jon turned to him immediately, looking him over, his hands fluttering as if he wanted to reach out, but held himself back. “Are you alright?” he asked, and the words were surprisingly earnest.

“I...yes, I’m alright,” Martin answered, fairly honestly. He was a little shaken, but otherwise fine. He kept getting distracted by the way Jon’s eyes dropped to his throat, as if he could still see Helen’s fingers there. “How...how did you know she was here?”

Martin found his eyes drawn back to Jon’s hands as they moved to fiddle with the buttons on the sleeves of his shirt, fast and twitchy. “W-Well,” Jon stuttered, “Sasha mentioned something about having to get you new bandages, a-and. Well, I just thought, just in case, I should maybe—”

“You were watching me?” Martin asked, parsing through what Jon was saying.

“I-I, w-well, we weren’t sure how bad your injury was at first—it luckily didn’t damage anything too badly, slipped right between the second and third flexor tendons actually, a-and Basira _did_ say it should be fine, but I just wanted to...to make sure…”

Martin gently interrupted before Jon could get started again. “Thank you,” he said honestly. Jon blinked at him, going very still. “I’m glad you saw. I don’t—” his voice cut out on him for a moment, the memory of cruel fingers at his throat a little too fresh. He took a breath and continued, “I don’t think I want to be alone with Helen anymore, if I can help it.”

“O-Oh.” Jon’s right hand twisted at his sleeve. “Good. You won’t be.”

Martin narrowed his eyes slightly and tilted his head, considering pointing out how mildly threatening that sounded, but decided not to. “Thanks,” he said instead, giving Jon a tentative smile.

Jon nodded, his eyes drifting around the room in what almost looked like nervousness, before they settled on his hand. “Oh. Right. You’re bleeding again.” His line of sight shifted slightly, and when he spoke again his voice took on a strange tone. “Are those Tim’s clothes? No, sorry, bleeding takes precedence.”

Martin blinked in surprise when Jon turned away and stalked toward the bathroom. “I stashed away spare bandages here for you,” Jon called from inside. He emerged with them in his hands, adding, “I swear, I did mention it to Sasha. She must have forgotten about them.”

Jon seemed to notice that Martin didn’t quite know what to do with himself when he came closer, and seemed to take it as discomfort, because he stopped and said, “I can get her to rewrap the bandages instead, if you like?”

“I—no, no that’s okay,” Martin assured him. He was mildly surprised to find that he meant it completely. “I just...where do you want me?”

“On the bed,” Jon answered, completely seriously. 

Martin bit down on a surprised laugh. “Right.” Martin sat on the end of the bed, watching Jon curiously. For someone imbued with the power of an eldritch fear god, Jon otherwise acted shockingly…normal. He did nervous things with his hands. He stuttered. He might get a little snippy and short with his words, but his actions seemed…genuinely apologetic. 

So, when Jon came closer and asked if he could see Martin’s hand, Martin lifted it up, letting Jon take it gently, with only the slightest hesitation. 

Martin was keenly aware of the few points of contact this allowed. Jon was very close, by necessity. His legs brushed against Martin’s where he sat. His hands were warm and dry where they touched his hand, a contrast of rough scar tissue and soft skin. Martin was at eye level with his chest, and he watched the rise and fall of it as Jon breathed, even and slow. He smelled clean, like laundered linen, with the hint of worn paper. The smell of The Archive. 

Jon worked with intense focus, every touch careful and gentle. While the shifting of the bandages still hurt every so often, Jon paused at every wince, going slow to minimize the discomfort. He didn’t speak, while he worked. All his attention seemed intensely focused on the task at hand. Focused on applying just the right amount of pressure, focused on cleaning out the wound slowly and careful enough that Martin was sure it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it should have. 

“There,” Jon murmured, after he’d finished. His fingers brushed Martin’s as they drew back and Martin’s breath caught inexplicably. 

“Thank you,” Martin said softly, lightly tracing the work with his other hand. 

“It’s the least I could do,” Jon said. “It was my fault you went out there in the first place.” Martin glanced up at him, surprised, as Jon continued, not quite looking at him, “we should have warned you about Helen, should have…should have done a lot of things differently. I’m sorry for that.”

“It…it’s okay,” Martin told him. 

After a moment, Jon took a step back. “Right. Well. Helen shouldn’t come back anytime soon, but I’ll keep an eye out.” 

He turned to go, but Martin quickly got to his feet, his hand shooting out to grab Jon’s wrist. “Jon, wait. I…I never said thank you. For saving my life. You…you risked your own for mine, and I didn’t…” Martin took a breath, giving Jon’s hand a small squeeze. Jon looked down at their hands, and the loss of his intense stare gave Martin the breath to finish. “Thank you.”

Jon looked back up at him for what felt like a long time, his glowing eyes inscrutable, before nodding. His fingers twitched in Martin’s grip, and Martin let go, sure that was what Jon wanted. Jon slowly returned his hand to his side, his fingers flexing. He stood there, half turned to the door. “Thank you for not leaving me out there,” he finally said. “I still don’t really understand why you didn’t. But thank you.”

Martin nodded mutely, half-hearted explanations that he didn’t quite understand himself tangling up on themselves in his throat. Jon made to turn again, but Martin blurted out, “I don’t want to be kept in the dark anymore.” When Jon again turned to face him, the tilt of his head belaying his confusion, Martin added, “Sasha’s been telling me about the fears. A-About The Stranger and The Eye. I know…I know there’s some reason you think you need me here. And I’d like to understand it. Please.”

Martin held his breath as Jon looked at him, for what felt like ages, a tenseness to his shoulders. It looked like he made to speak a few times but stopped himself, what with his head lifting and falling, and the huffs of breath he continued to take. His hands twitched, as if he was nervous. Finally, Jon spoke, his voice surprisingly wary. As if Jon had any reason to be afraid of _him._ “Martin, have you ever met Annabelle Cane?”

“Um.” The randomness of the question caught Martin off guard, and he was sure it showed on his face. Something about the name felt...strange, off-putting. Like something he couldn’t put his finger on. He didn’t like it. “I don’t...think so?” he said honestly. “Should I have?”

Jon searched his face for a moment more before his shoulders relaxed visibly. “Ideally not,” he murmured, almost under his breath, but he sounded...relieved. 

“O...kay.” Martin said. In the silence that followed, he sighed. “Look, Jon, I _just_ want to know what the hell is going on—”

“You’re right,” Jon said, holding up his hands placatingly. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You...you should know.” 

“Oh,” Martin managed. “Really?”

Martin wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard something like the flash of a smile in Jon’s voice when he said, “yes. I...I had worried about this for so long, but maybe…” he trailed off, looking thoughtful, before his eyes returned to meet Martin’s. “We think you’re meant to do something here. And it might actually help us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Martin is getting somewhere with answers! Some stuff he learns, you guys already know, and there are hints to some stuff you guys don't know...
> 
> Next chapter is the full on "what the hell happened to get them all here" chapter. I actually need to change the day I regularly post because, fun fact, I just started a new job, so imma be busy on Mondays. Updates should come on wednesdays unless I say otherwise. So expect the next chapter not this wednesday, but the next coming wednesday. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and remember, quite like the archives gang, it's actually comments, not food, that keep me alive ;)


	7. The Half-Truths

Martin looked down at the book displayed in the center of The Archive, not for the first time, feeling entranced by it. It, admittedly, didn’t look like something that should catch the eye. It looked like a book that had been left out in the rain, its pages warped by faded black ink. Still, the words on the page were left carefully legible, surrounded by ink stains. Martin skimmed over the words again, fighting the urge to reach out and touch as he did the first time. He found his eyes caught, for a moment, on the golden gleam of the gilded pages, sparkling in the sunlight that streamed through the windows to his right.

“Here,” came Sasha’s voice, at his right, and when Martin turned she was pressing a mug full of tea into his hand. 

He smiled at her, taking a sip. It was lovely, malty with just a hint of sugar. Sasha’s tea making skill rivaled, and perhaps surpassed, his own. “Thank you,” Martin murmured to her, basking in the warmth of the ceramic. 

He took a breath and turned around to face the rest of them. Jon, leaning against the desk at the front of the room. Tim, sitting on the next desk which must have been his and strumming his fingers against its surface. Sasha, moving to sit beside him and entwining their fingers together. Basira, leaning against a shelf at his right, the wooden side of her face just barely illuminated by the light at her back. 

“So,” Martin said.

“Right,” Jon murmured, after a moment. “Where to begin.”

“The _beginning_ is usually a good start,” Martin said dryly, with more confidence than he felt at that moment. Tim snorted a laugh to his left and Martin bit down on a smile. “What is this place? Who are all of you?”

Jon gave a heaving sigh. “Right. Well. This is the Magnus Estate, built in 1818 by Jonah Magnus.” His voice took on the self-assured cadence of a university lecturer, and Martin thought it suited him. “It was initially a private estate that Magnus kept as a second home in the country, but...Magnus quickly became a collector of sorts. Dealing in information and artifacts of the supernatural and storing them here. Mostly people’s firsthand accounts of the supernatural. What he deemed “statements.” In fact, he became so obsessed with collecting statements in particular that he opened the estate up to the public for the purpose of amassing more. His collection eventually grew so large that he needed to hire staff to sort through it all. Hence, the beginning of The Archive.”

“And the beginning of this...temple to The Eye?” Martin asked.

“Yes. The statements—they were always documented for The Eye. Maybe even Magnus didn’t know why he was collecting them at first, but. The Archive is perhaps The Eye’s strongest connection to our world. Though, we didn’t…” Jon audibly exhaled, like a tired sigh. “We didn’t know that at the time. We were all hired about six years ago to help cultivate The Archive by the current estate holder, Elias Bouchard. We had no idea of the Fears’ existence, until about a year in when we were able to...rather inadvertently prevent The Corruption from performing a ritual for greater power. And the more we learned about the Fears, the stronger The Eye’s hold on us became, and...well. The more vital we were to Elias and his own plans.”

“Hold on,” Martin said, closing his eyes. “The Corruption...is?”

“Fear of disease, filth, infestation,” Sasha supplied. “Supposedly, you met one of its avatars already. Jane Prentiss.”

Martin stared at her, brow furrowed. “I did? It—oh. The woman with the insects and the…?” he gestured generally to his face.

“Yes,” Jon confirmed dryly after a moment, drawing out the word. “A living hive.” 

“A-And rituals...are when one of the Fears tries to...to gain more power?”

“Exactly.”

“Is that how The Stranger came to power?”

For the first time, no one immediately jumped in to answer him. He glanced at their faces, noticed clenched jaws and tight shoulders. 

“No,” Jon finally answered, his voice strangely rigid. “Not exactly. We were trying to find a way to stop their ritual. We knew it was coming, we were...warned by Elias that it was coming. And it was in his opinion that...the more closely aligned with The Eye I became, the greater the chance of us stopping it. So. I read more and more statements and…became less and less human. But our trust in Elias had shattered at that point. We didn’t want The Stranger to complete its ritual, but we also weren’t certain that Elias’ way was the best way.”

“So…?” Martin pressed, when Jon stopped.

“So,” he said, his eyes cast at the floor, “when another opportunity presented itself, we took it.”

* * *

Jon was utterly exhausted. He had lost count of the number of nights he now spent in The Archive, pouring over statements like an addict. He read, and he read, and he read until the words blurred and he was too consumed by other people’s fear to hold the statements without shaking.

He fumbled with the lighter in his pocket, trying to light the cigarette that dangled from his lips and shivering in the damp of the tunnels below the estate. He had quit, before he’d started at the estate. Now, it was the most effective thing he could do to stave away the chills of being away from The Archive for too long, of being away from The Eye. He couldn’t feel the pressure of its gaze down here, and neither could he feel Elias’ eyes on him, always watchful. Always ensuring Jon stumbled forward blindly, while still following precisely the path Elias wanted him to tread.

The lighter refused to cooperate for almost a full minute, until Jon finally got it to light. He took a drag of the cigarette, reveling in the mild relief it brought. The glowing tip illuminated the dank, dripping walls of the tunnels around him. Jon hadn’t brought a flashlight down. His eyes could see it all fine now anyway. 

Jon stretched his hand in front of him, feeling detached, and watched his fingers tremble around the cigarette.

“They say those things’ll kill you, darling,” came a lovely, lilting voice from the tunnel branching off a little ways to his right.

Jon swore, spinning around, the cigarette dropping from his grip. A hand from the darkness behind him shot out and caught it between deft fingers. He could have sworn, in the darkness, six eyes glinted back at him. But when the newcomer raised the cigarette to their lips, stepping forward, there were only two, brown and twinkling in the pinprick light of the cigarette. Her brown skin glowed in the dim light almost unnaturally, as if there was a golden light all her own thrumming just behind her face. The woman’s lips, painted purple, pursed, and smoke rose in plumes between them. Jon could almost see figures in the swirls, could almost see movement, and his mind filled with thoughts of soothsayers reading fortunes in tea leaves and the embers of fires. 

The woman wore a dress that was practically a gown, sheer and black and frilling at her wrists and up the long column of her throat. Jon could scarcely make out the right side of her face, shaded as it was with a wide brimmed, tilted black hat with a trailing veil, like a black spider’s web. It hid most of her short shorn white hair. The cobwebs in the tunnel caught on the frill of her dress and looked at home there, like an extension of the fabric. 

She held the cigarette back out for him, pristine, black fingernails shining. Jon hesitated for a moment before cautiously reaching out and taking it. He fought a shudder when their fingers brushed, thoughts of skittering spiders filling his mind. 

Pointedly, Jon dropped it, grinding it into the floor with the tip of his shoe. “I imagine it’d take a lot more than that to do me in now,” he said, watching her warily.

Her lips twitched as if he had said something amusing. “Oh, Jon,” she said, her voice smooth, soothing. It did nothing but racket up Jon’s anxiety. “We both know there are far worse fates than death. Any of your friends could tell you that.”

Jon stiffened despite himself, fighting the urge to flee. He didn’t much like the idea of turning his back to her. _“Who are you?”_ he snarled instead, letting compulsion blanket the words. _“Why are you here?”_

Her answer was prefaced by a pause, subtle, but one that made Jon question if his compulsion had done anything at all. “You’d know me as Annabelle Cane,” she answered easily, her voice like honey. “And I’m here to offer you a gift.”

Jon had suspected who she might be. There were only a few statements of The Web that had truly gotten under his skin, and hers was one of them. His attention caught on her second answer, curiosity flooding through him. He wasn’t sure how much of it was his and how much was the Eye, wanting to know. “A gift?” he frowned, noticing she had a bag with her, draped across her shoulder. He stared at it. “I politely decline.”

She eyed him, her eyes raking up and down, and...around him, as if there was something in the air Jon couldn’t see. “It’s curious,” she said eventually, her eyes settling back on his, “that my god is the one of puppets, when you’re the one being jerked about by string.”

Jon felt anger and fear lance through him in equal measure, the force of his reaction nearly rocking him back on his heels. This is what The Web did. It poked and prodded for weakness and he had already shown his hand. “I suppose we all have our masters,” he grit out, fully intending to turn and leave, but he was stopped by Annabelle’s reply.

“And you’ll follow, blindly, even as your Ceaseless Watcher leads you and those you care for into the flames? Because there will be carnage, and there will be casualties.” 

“And you know that for certain, do you?” Jon sneered, even as his heart beat too loud in his ears, and the near constant worry that bombarded him and kept him from sleeping came rushing back. He’d known stopping the Unknowing might end in death. But it felt like he’d been struck, to hear a confirmation of his fears with such calm assurity.

“The threads of that particular path have already been woven,” she replied, as Jon’s heart sank, because he _Knew_ she was telling the truth. “But that isn’t the only path you can take.”

“You’d prefer I take yours, then?” 

She smiled, closed mouthed, a bland thing. “My preferences have nothing to do with this. I’m merely offering you a choice.”

_“Why?”_

She smiled wider. Her canines were curiously sharp, her teeth bright white. “Have you heard the expression ‘life is a game of cards?’ Well, Jon, your hand was already dealt to you, but you’re yet to make a thoughtful move. I’m simply offering the best way to play.”

Jon scowled and shifted tacts, his question specific so as to keep her from talking in circles. “ _What do you have to gain from this?”_

Annabelle’s expression flattened out. “We are wary of the path you’re taking. It would be unsuitable, creating ripples where there need not be. And we would rather counter the Unknowing our way.”

“And this...gift,” Jon said, suspicion curling around the word. “It would prevent the Unknowing?”

“It can. If used correctly.”

“I want a guarantee.”

“Those threads have not yet been woven.”

“But—”

“Those threads have not been woven,” she repeated, and though she didn’t change her tone at all, it sounded like there were suddenly more of her, like an echo, but contained within the space she occupied. Eyes illuminated by golden light flashed on her face when she spoke, two on her forehead and two on her cheeks, slitted and flashing bright for a moment, before fading away.

Jon took an involuntary step back. 

“However,” she said, her voice normal again, tilting her head as if considering. “I can show you what is already written. What is certain, if you continue on your path.” Jon opened his mouth to respond, unsure if he should acquiesce or not, but before he could do so, Annabelle nodded and said definitively, “yes, you need to see.”

She lunged forward, faster than Jon could process. Faster than Jon could hope to stumble away. She reached out and touched him, and Jon’s world exploded.

Or... _no. The explosion comes later, after Jon’s world has upended and come undone and he can’t remember his own name. After he feels the sting of Tim’s flailing limbs and the sheer volume of his hateful curses, slung while Nikola laughs and laughs and laughs._

_Tim’s face comes into focus the moment before he activates the detonator, streaked with filth and crossed with a smile that is less a smile and more grit teeth and blood._

_Then, the explosion comes, ripping him apart and Jon along with it—_

_Only...something deigns to wrench him back together again._

_Basira is lost in her quiet fury._

_Melanie is blinded and bleeding._

_Daisy is swallowed, dirt and worms crawling in her lungs._

_Tim is so mutilated there is nothing fit for a funeral._

_And Jon is so far from what is human and right and good that even Georgie turns from him, wary distrust in her eyes as she walks away, and he Knows he will never see her again._

_And the world...the world is a wasteland, a sprawling hell of his own making, his fault, his fault, his_ **_fault—_ **

The images receded as quickly as they’d come as Annabelle pulled away, leaving Jon doubled over, his head splitting and his lungs burning. He realized he wasn’t breathing, tried to remedy this, but he could only take in so much. He felt as though there wasn’t enough space for things as needy as air, with the cloying swirl of guilt and grief in his chest. So much of it he could have drowned. 

“It’s a trick,” he gasped out.

“It’s not,” Annabelle assured easily, as if she wasn't destroying him with two words. “It has the ring of truth, I know you can feel it. You may be young, Jon, but you’re not incapable of using the powers given to you.” And Jon knew. He Knew it was true and it felt like a knife sliding into his heart. “It is written,” she continued. “But it isn’t the only path left to you.”

Jon couldn’t help it. He laughed. He laughed and it split the air between them like a whip. Annabelle looked, for a moment, caught off guard, her brow furrowing as she looked down at him. It really wasn’t funny. But it was all he could do to keep from sobbing. “And what horrors await on your path?” he managed, the grin on his face feeling less like a grin and more like grit teeth against the rush of hopelessness. Because he was always going to be someone’s puppet, wasn’t he?

“Horrors of the Watcher’s own making, perhaps,” Annabelle said. “But some things are certain. Your friends will be alive. Even those you thought lost long ago.”

Jon stared at her, his mouth moving before he had fully given it any thought. He didn’t recognize his own voice when he asked, “what does that mean?”

“You can bring back Sasha James,” she said. 

Jon gaped at her, a different kind of feeling lancing through his heart. One infinitely more dangerous. Hope. “That’s...that’s not possible,” he breathed. “Sasha’s dead.”

Annabelle’s eyes narrowed for a moment as she tilted her head, studying him. Finally, she said, “you misunderstand the NotThem. They deal in masks, in things concealed. Gilded. They are the covering, not the frame.” Jon stared at her mutely, confused, and Annabelle huffed, adding, “the NotThem hasn’t killed her. That would be counterintuitive. They are, I suppose you could say, parasitic. It’s _become_ her. Sasha James isn’t dead, she is merely...away. _Occupied_.”

The words were true, as little sense as they made. They rang in Jon’s head like a bell. “So…” he started weakly, “there is...a part of her in the NotThem. And you can bring her back?”

“No,” Annabelle said, reaching into the bag at her waist. She pulled out a hefty book, more of a tome than anything, and held it out to him. “But you can.”

Jon’s eyes felt caught by it, drawn to its gleaming pages. “What about everyone else?” he managed, even though all he wanted in that moment was to dart forward and take it. 

He wanted to read it with an intensity that was not natural. 

“They will live. All of them. Timothy Stoker, Basira Hussain, Melanie King, Alice Toner. And Sasha James.”

It was true. The words buzzed with it, reverberating in the air between them. The confirmation punched any remaining air straight out of Jon’s lungs. “And...the world?” 

Annabelle looked at him for a moment. “Those threads have not been woven.”

Jon stared at her. “So it could still _end?”_

“Oh, Jon. The world could always _just end_ ,” she said. “On this path, the fate of the world is uncertain. On yours it is cemented. It shouldn’t even be a choice for you, really.”

“That’s _not_ —“

“The world _will_ end if you do not use this book, Jon,” she said, clipped. “I can assure you of that. And it will be, unequivocally, your fault.”

What was he supposed to do with that? The certainty in her tone and the truth thrumming in her voice that felt like a crushing weight on his shoulders. Surety of failure was a different kind of pain.

The Web didn’t offer lifelines like this. The Web tangled you up in your lifeline and drowned you. 

And yet, all he could think of was the truth in her voice. They will live. They will live, they will _live—_

“So,” he said, his voice sounding strange even to his ears, “I’m to place all my hopes on a Leitner, then?” 

“Not a Leitner,” Annabelle snapped, the first real emotion Jon had seen from her. “The book has never been sullied by Jurgen Leitner’s perverted collection. It is purely of The Web, through and through. A book of prophecy. A book of power.”

Jon would regret asking. Would regret even considering. But all he could feel in that moment was that treacherous, terrible hope, thrumming in his heart, flapping weakly like a dying bird. “What would I have to do?”

“The book is one of control. Turns chaos to order. Mindless fear to tactful purpose. If you still need confirmation, even as you _know_ I speak the truth, there have been very few uses of the book documented here. In your...Archive,” she said, speaking the word as if it were an unpleasant taste in her mouth. “Four of them, if I’m not—“

“So what do I _do?”_ he asked, feeling manic. Feeling, against his better judgement, fucking _hopeful_. 

She looked at him then, and again looked around him as well, her eyes tracing the air in front and above and behind him. She hummed, as if surprised, but before Jon could do something stupid like snap at her, she said, “it’s very simple, in your case. The book is meant to channel fear. It acts as a conduit of sorts. Find the page that calls to you. You’ll know which is meant for you, blank as the book will seem at first. As the words appear on the page, read aloud from it, at the time of the Unknowing, holding only the fear of the Stranger in your mind. And the book will contain the fear. The bulk of it, as it is present in the ritual.” 

Jon waited. “That’s _it?”_

“That’s it,” Annabelle parroted, her lips twisting. “In your case.”

“That can’t be all the book is meant to do,” Jon argued.

“It’s not. The book is meant to convert fear. Make it pliable, make the sheer power of it bend to your will. The book contains the power of that delightful fear energy until a specific course of action is taken, at which point you can _use_ that sheer power for...well.” She smiled, purple lips pursed. “Whatever you like, really. It’s just power, at that point. To be directed.”

“A specific course of action?” Jon repeated, half disbelieving.

“The course written on your page. It can be...deceptively difficult to get right. The Web doesn’t grant agency easily.”

“So just follow the instructions, then?” Jon sniped. 

He regretted the quip when Annabelle’s mouth flattened out, her eyes narrowing into slits that didn’t look quite human. But Annabelle merely turned on her heel and set the book down against a tunnel wall. Immediately spiders crawled out from cracks in the foundation and set upon it. Jon fought a disgusted shudder. 

“Do not use the book outside of the tunnels,” she instructed, her voice clipped. “Do not share any of this with Elias Bouchard. Lest you be set back on your original course.” She gave him one last unimpressed look, before turning away.

Jon glanced at the book, then back at her, stumbling forward. “Wait! I never—I never said I’d use—”

Annabelle spun abruptly, rounding on him. Her canines flashed and her teeth clacked on hard consonants like heels clipping stone. “So don’t use it, you obstinate fool. If you want to make one, last, _stupid_ choice. Stay on your path, your preconstructed track. Become an empty head for the Watcher’s crown and watch everyone you care for crumble around you.” She turned again, stalking away into the shadows before Jon could even think to ask what that meant. Her voice called back one last time, bouncing along the walls. An eerie warning. “I’d be careful, though. Spitting on a gift from the weavers.” Her head turned one last time, shrouded in darkness, six glowing eyes flashing back at him. Her voice echoed eerily on the walls, a resounding promise. “It never ends well.”

Jon remained in the tunnels for a long time after she left, watching as spiders in the corner slowly weaved intricate webs above the book, slowly and with incredible care hiding it from view. His chest felt tight, as if webs were encircling him too, binding and squeezing his treacherous heart. 

When he finally emerged, he scoured The Archive for the statements Cane had mentioned. He found them eventually, to his immeasurable disgust, by following the spiders. His hands itched when he brushed cobwebs off the dry paper, fear lancing through him when tiny, pinprick sized spiders ran over the words as if they were stray punctuation come to life. He braved the fear, because he had to know. 

He had to know if this hope was real.

He read the statements down in the tunnels without recording them, wary of Elias’ stray gaze and Annabelle’s parting words. 

The facts were, as follows. The book—no title, no indicators of what it was other than its appearance and unnatural thrall—was always given as a gift. 

To one woman, it was given at her mother’s funeral by a distant relative she did not recognize. She read it there and then, consumed by her fear of the earth and the buried, her mother’s death a reminder that the ground always took back what it gave. Upon reading the page that called to her, her fear vanished entirely, as if it had never existed in the first place. She retained, in her statement, that she would have been content to leave things at that. Let the book have her fear and keep it. But she was young and poor and lonely, and when the house payments became too expensive for her alone to bear and the house itself too empty, she sought to use the book again.

The course of action necessary to release the power contained in the book was never, in any account, pleasant. It took a measure of devotion, an iron will to see a deed done. 

In the woman’s case, the rhyme on the page concerned her digging up her mother’s grave with her bare hands, and replacing her rotted, maggot-filled corpse with a fresh one. Once the deed was done, she was able to bring her mother back, as if The End had not touched her at all. 

He found two other accounts in his frantic search through the night. Both with similar steps. One fear was harnessed and contained. The instructions on the page were followed. The sheer power contained in the book was released, in whatever way the enactor of the deed saw fit. 

It was enough, at least, to confirm that the book worked. And Jon only needed to use it to contain the fear released during The Unknowing. He only needed to read it.

Had Jon been in a better state of mind, he might have researched further. He might have found that last statement, the fourth that Annabelle Cane had mentioned. Perhaps that would have changed things.

But Elias was always watching and The Unknowing was just around the corner, and Jon...Jon felt hopeful for the first time in a very, very long time. 

Hope is often self-destructive like that. 

* * *

It was an easy enough thing to convince Tim, being an offer of both vanquishing The Stranger and bringing back Sasha. It knocked the breath out of Jon’s lungs, to see the expression approaching hope on Tim’s drawn, shadowed face. Leitner’s _The Seven Lamps of Architecture_ was clutched tight in Tim’s grip, ready to be used if this really worked, because the NotThem remained trapped in the tunnel walls. Jon was wary of the use of yet another book of power, but Leitner had used it well enough to trap the NotThem in the first place and...well. The book of the buried hadn’t been what had done him in, in the end. 

Basira and Daisy were less easily swayed, but eventually agreed. Melanie didn’t particularly care one way or the other, so long as she was the one to take care of Elias in the meantime. Distract him, by any means necessary, prevent him from Seeing until the deed was done. As wary as Jon was of _that,_ she could not be convinced otherwise. 

_I’ll handle it,_ she’d said, hard and clipped and full of cold fury, and as much as Jon disliked the thought, the alternative of Elias’ intervention was unthinkable. 

And so, in the tunnels, on the day of The Unknowing, Jon read from the book.

Perhaps it was the timing of it all. Perhaps they should have waited longer, until The Unknowing was a moment from complete. Perhaps it was a mispronunciation, or a lapse of focus. 

Or perhaps it was simply that the book was never meant to work for them at all. 

It was easy enough to find the right page, even as they were all deceptively blank. He flipped through until he was compelled to stop, the page whispering curling promises that only he could hear, pulling at his chest as if there were a string around his ribs. It _sang_ to him. 

And so, when the first word materialized on the page, he began to read, thinking only of The Stranger. The urge was not unlike what came over him when reading statements. He wanted to give voice to the words. They were almost living things that escaped his mouth, clawing for breath. Even as his page and the words on it revealed themselves, he physically could not stop reading, even if he’d wanted to. The choice had been made, and it was too late.

The book trembled in his hands as he read. Before him, inky black fear from The Unknowing manifested in the air and bled into the book’s pages like a torrential rain, like a force of nature. The air filled with carnival music and shrieks and moans, and pure, unfiltered fear flooded the tunnels around them, shadowy figures clawing to keep from being drawn into the book. It continued for what felt like eons, the book shuddering and straining in his grasp as it filled like a well as The Unknowing collapsed on itself miles away. 

And then it was over. The book went quiet and still in Jon’s grasp. The Stranger’s constant looming presence in Jon’s mind was gone. They all held their breaths. 

Tim was staring at him, wind-whipped, wide eyed, and pale. “Is that...is that it? Is it done?”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but before he could the book trembled in his hands again. He looked down at it only to see that black fear well back up on the page like liquid ink. It ran off in rivulets, bleeding into the ground and twisting through the air, and in it, he could hear the echo of Nikola’s laughter and the sound of the circus. “No,” he rasped, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the sounds of The Stranger again filling the air, and the sounds of Basira’s shouting or Daisy’s howling or the muffled screaming that he couldn’t quite place. “No, no, no, no—“

And then the inky fear crawled from the book in his grip and sank under his skin, flooding his veins. Jon had thought he’d already experienced the purest heights of pain. This was different. This was a new kind of agony that flooded behind his eyes and blacked out that door in his head. He hadn’t realized how much he’d relied on the presence of his god until The Eye was forced to turn its gaze from him. 

He only knew that it _hurt,_ and it was the last thing he knew for a while. 

When he woke, it was eerily quiet, broken only by harsh, choking breaths that were nearly sobs. It pierced through the pain in his head with enough urgency that he knew something was very wrong, but every thought ached and every twitch felt like fire. 

The book lay at his fingertips, stained black, mockingly still. It was open to his page, the page that began “ _When Beholding lies in the belly of The Stranger,”_ and Jon knew, he knew, of course it was never meant to work. Jon stared at it, impotent fury building in his chest. A fury for The Web, for The Stranger, for Beholding. As much as it hurt to move, he reached out, fully intending to close it and cast those mocking words from his sight. His fingers brushed it, and suddenly he felt The Stranger’s presence like a wave, furious and wrathful and _trapped,_ the sounds of the circus like a piercing wail—

He pulled his hand away as if burned, staring at the book, which remained deceptively still. The fear from The Unknowing—a great deal of it— _had_ remained in the book. Some of it had escaped, but the book still thrummed with latent, angry power. 

They hadn’t entirely failed.

A sound—a low murmuring—drew his attention away. Agonizingly slowly, he turned his head to look at the figures, hunched against the wall opposite. For a moment as he stared, his mind working sluggishly, he couldn’t even place them at all. It had been a long time since any knowledge was hard to come by. Before he could lose himself to the sudden panic that realization brought, his memory clicked. It was Tim, ragged, tear tracks on his face, his arms wrapped around the person at his side, covered in dust and dirt and debris. 

Jon managed to choke out his name, though it sounded more like a garbled whimper. 

Tim’s attention turned to him, but he didn’t meet Jon’s eyes, staring at the vicinity of his chest. His grip around the other person tightened. With Tim’s face turned to him, Jon could see what he’d thought were tear tracks were actually red tracks of blood drying on his face, his eyes bloodshot and shellshocked. “What am I thinking about, Jon?” Tim asked flatly. “Right now. Right in this moment, what am I thinking about?”

Tim’s voice was as cold as Jon had ever heard it. _“What?”_ Jon couldn’t draw his eyes away from the blood, panicked. “Tim, are you—”

“If you don’t answer me right now, I will kill you myself,” Tim grit out. “You would know. You, the know-it-all prick. You’d know. So. What am I thinking about.”

For a brief, terrifying moment, as much as Jon strained himself, he didn’t _know_ . The information, what before would have been something he might have even known _unwillingly,_ refused to come. Tim’s expression turned dark in the silence, twisting in fury and grief. Jon screwed his eyes shut, fighting for the information until his head felt like it might crack open with the pressure, until finally it peaked through. “You—you’re…” His voice briefly cut out. “You’re wondering how you ever forgot what Sasha’s eyes looked like.”

The person at Tim’s side let out a sound like a sob, pressing closer to him. Tim’s grip looked like it tightened almost to the point of pain. “Glad you’re still you then, Jon,” Tim muttered, his eyes shutting and his head leaning back to tip against the wall. 

The person at Tim’s side turned her head, just so, so Jon could see her profile. A strong jaw, gently sloping nose, narrowed brown eyes. “That _thing_ is not Jon,” she said, her voice dry and cracked like desert earth. Familiar, and yet, not. She fit a watery outline in Jon’s memory, a blank space where someone dear had once fit. 

The laugh Tim gave was hollow and empty. “Afraid it is, love.”

Unease flooded Jon’s veins, a cold, sickening shock. “What are you talking about.” He shifted, trying to sit up, trying to get Tim’s attention. “Tim, what—Tim, _look_ at me.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Tim replied, his head lolling as his eyes opened tiredly. They remained firmly locked somewhere around Jon’s chest. The blood on his cheeks glinted in the low light. “But I’m not making that mistake again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooooboy, poor Jon. Poor everyone really. So "the backstory" was something I was originally planning to get done in one chapter but then I realized just how MUCH it was, so it shall be split into two. This has been Backstory Part 1 and probably the only time in this story where we will see Jon's pov. 
> 
> Next up, what happened to Basira and Daisy? What's up with Melanie and Bitchard upstairs? Will we ever find that fourth statement that Annabelle mentioned about the book? Stay tuned for Backstory Part 2. We're in for a ride.
> 
> (Also can you tell I love writing Annabelle Cane)
> 
> Thoughts, theories, reactions? Love to hear em.


	8. The Big Picture

It was the moment when Basira dared to think the plan worked when things went to shit.

Of course it had. In all her—admittedly short—time at the Magnus Estate, she had never known things to go particularly well for any of them. It had been infuriating to be tied to the wretched place against her will, and even more so to know so little about the man that controlled all their fates while he watched their every move with sharp eyes. 

Basira had thrown herself into research of The Eye, buried herself in books likely a step away from being cursed as Leitners in a frantic attempt to understand. Know thine enemy and all. It had been a step forward, in terms of feeling as though the ground were slowly inching back under her feet again. But it was clear Bouchard was playing a game none of them understood, with his own rules and his own goals. 

So the choice to well and truly go behind his back and make a move of their own had been...tempting. 

And Jon had been decidedly swayed by the out Annabelle Cane had offered them. He’d told them what he’d seen—or at least parts of it, parts of the horrors she’d shown him. That cursed future that awaited them if they continued to play into Bouchard’s hands without protest. Despite what Jon was— _monster,_ a frightened, buried-deep part of her quailed—she knew he was perhaps more human than a lot of people she knew. She knew he cared. He cared perhaps more than even she did nowadays, with her blunted morals, her Section 31 training ingrained deep as instinct now. 

Jon cared. It was decently hidden over a veneer of social ineptitude sharp enough to be genuinely rude, but. She’d realized at that point that he clearly cared deeply about all of them—even her, even _Daisy_ who constantly snapped at him and had nearly taken his head off. She knew that he was willing to try this untested alliance with Annabelle Cane for _them_.

Part of her, that hardened, prickly pessimist in her, couldn’t help but wonder if Annabelle had somehow known that part of Jon too. Wondered if she had seen it like a bruise and pressed on it just so, until Jon relented. 

But Jon was adamant that what Annabelle had shown him had been the truth, and Basira knew enough of him and the power that thrummed under his skin to believe it. 

And if this path—this less confrontational, less direct, less violent path—could keep the blood from singing too loudly in Daisy’s ears...if it could be enough to keep her grounded...well. Then, it wasn’t a choice, really.

But it all went to shit anyway.

Basira didn’t know what exactly caused it. It might have been that the book truly couldn’t hold that much of The Stranger. Or it could have been that Annabelle was a deceptive, lying bitch, because the book spewed The Stranger’s power back out and into the tunnels around them as if it had been meant to do that instead. 

Shadows flew through the air, cackling as if they were living things. They whipped at her like wind, catching in the fabric of her clothing and stinging her eyes, and as they swirled around her thoughts of what they were there for and whatshe was doing were fuzzy and hard to hold onto. 

The screaming drew her attention. It had been a steady crescendo building in the background until she could not ignore the sound, muffled as it was. Muffled as if the shriek were coming from under the very earth. Under layers of dirt. Basira only had to lock eyes on Tim’s face, horror-stricken as he scrambled for the Leitner he’d brought to realize where it was coming from. 

Basira had never met her—the one who had so quickly turned Tim from his single-minded quest for revenge. But she wouldn’t have wished her fate on anyone, especially this. The muffled, panicked screaming and sobbing made Basira’s knees feel weak. 

Basira whirled to Daisy at her side when she suddenly went rigid, doubling over and clutching her middle, panting ragged breaths that were too quick and fast to be solely panic. Basira’s hands found her shoulders, an instinctive movement, as easy as breathing. It was, in that moment, the easiest thing in the world to tune out the sheer chaos, the fear that prickled at her skin like lightning, in favor of meeting Daisy’s eyes. 

Her pupils were blown wide, and in her open, painting mouth Basira could see teeth lengthening and sharpening.

“Daisy,” she breathed. She took a breath, closing her eyes briefly and schooling herself. Kept the calm in her voice even as black winds whipped at them and Sasha James screamed and the circus played its demented tune. “Daisy, listen to me. Look at me. Don’t listen to it, Daisy.”

Daisy’s eyes were unfocused, her body trembling violently, her arms wrapped tight enough around herself Basira could see her lengthening nails digging into her skin. “It wants me,” Daisy murmured, almost inaudibly. “It wants me. It wants me. It’s calling.”

“It can’t have you,” Basira grit out, cursing the waver in her voice. Cursing the siren call of The Hunt. “I won’t let it.” She fought hard to keep her face calm, even as she despaired at what she’d heard in Daisy’s voice. What almost sounded like _longing._ Daisy didn’t look at her. 

“Jon,” Basira tried, reluctant to take any of her attention off of Daisy. “What is—” Basira looked up at where she’d last seen Jon standing, holding the book, only for her throat to close up. 

Jon was prone on the ground, still as death, and at his fingertips was that fucking book, inky tendrils seeping from it and into his skin. A dark, black mass like fear made flesh hovered over the book and over him, cackling and singing like the circus. 

“Fuck. _Fuck_. JON!” she shouted, a desperate attempt to get him to wake from afar, as she tried to keep Daisy from shattering in her arms. 

He didn’t move, but that inky cloud of fear did, whirling as if... _looking_ at her. Despite every attempt to keep it from shaking her, fear crept into her heart.

But then Daisy shuddered and _snarled_ , the sound like a gunshot echoing in the tunnels, and the mass of fear trembled back. 

“Basira. Get. Away. From. Me,” Daisy grit out, her eyes blown black and intent on that mass of fear that looked as if it shook at the attention. 

Basira balked at the idea. “I’m _not—”_

Daisy’s shove caught her by surprise, powerful and brutal. Basira hit the ground hard, the breath blowing out of her lungs and her vision going spotty. Still, she saw the way that curling cloud of fear scattered, separating into a thousand inky strands as Daisy roared through too many new teeth. Saw Daisy bend and break and twist until she was hunter through and through. Basira felt every break of bone and twist of sinew in her heart. 

And then, Daisy picked a straggling strand of fear and raced after it on all fours, following it into the darkness. 

Basira was trying to scramble after even before she had the breath for it. Her ribs ached, her head swam, but all she could see was the afterimage of Daisy on the backs of her eyelids. 

She struggled to her feet, breath rattling, and just barely registered how quiet it was. She cast her eyes to Jon, panicked, but she closed her eyes in relief when she saw his chest rising up and down, his head turned away from her. 

Footsteps sounded at her left. She whirled, heart in her throat, only to see Tim—still standing, still breathing. And the person at his side, covered in dust and cobwebs. 

Basira stared at her. “It worked then?” she rasped, meeting Tim’s eyes. “She’s...herself again?”

“ _She,_ ” the woman that must have been Sasha James said, her voice a grittier rasp than Basira’s, “is _right here._ ” Narrowed brown eyes flashed at her from a face coated in grey dust.

The twitch of lips across Tim’s face looked genuine. “Sasha, meet Basira,” he said.

Perhaps one good thing had come out of all this after all. “Pleasure,” Basira said evenly, meaning it. She glanced between them. “I need you to stay here with Jon until I get back, make sure he keeps breathing. We have no idea what we’re dealing with, so stay inside the estate.”

“ _Jon?”_ Sasha said, wide eyes glancing at the prone figure on the ground.

“And where are you going?” Tim asked, stare level.

“I’m going after Daisy.”

“What about Melanie?” Tim glanced up pointedly and added, “it’s been awful quiet up there. No all-seeing pricks storming down and raining hell on us.”

“I’ll check it out,” Basira answered, turning. “Stay out of trouble.”

From behind, she heard Tim murmur, “that never does seem to be a sustainable plan.”

* * *

As soon as Basira pushed up the trapdoor, she smelled the blood. When she slowly peaked over the edge, she saw the body. It was an effort not to recoil. It was feet away, the metallic scent of carnage all too thick in the air. 

She hoisted herself up, pointed avoiding glancing over until her arms stopped shaking with the effort and with...well. 

She’d hoped to catch up with Daisy before she could do anything irreparable, but it seemed she might have been too late. 

The floorboards creaked under her as she settled her weight back on the floor above the tunnels, first on her knees, then on trembling legs. She took a breath that did nothing to settle her, the scent of blood thick as smoke. Finally, she glanced over and took a better look at the immoving figure sprawled a few feet away. 

The blood had seeped deep into the floorboards, staining them a muddy, rust red. The body was face down, a trail of blood betraying what must have been their last few moments spent crawling to the trapdoor. There were splinters in the fingertips, nails raked to shreds. The once pristine suit was riddled with gashes and stained red like the floor around them. 

Basira had seen a lot of bloodshed. But when she finally looked at his face, nausea rose in her throat. Drying blood trailed out of the open mouth that had once spilled painful secrets and whispered promises. And where his piercing eyes had once been were now two gaping, bleeding sockets crawling with hundreds of twitching spiders.

She swallowed around the disgust and looked closer. The blood around Elias’ body was disturbed, and what looked like smudged pawprints trailing away. She scanned the body again, searching for signs of Daisy’s claws, maybe her teeth. But all Basira could see were countless bloody gashes, like...like wounds from a knife, plunged in and out dozens of times. 

Basira glanced up, her eyes raking over the empty, quiet room. Slowly, her hands went to the gun at her side, pulling it out soundlessly. “Melanie?” she called, keeping her voice level. 

There was no response. Basira swore. Though it took an agonizing amount of time, she searched the estate, slow and careful. There was utterly no sign of Melanie anywhere.

* * *

The race to follow Daisy’s trail of scuffed claw marks and fur was, admittedly, a blur after that. Basira moved decisively and she moved fast. She’d already lost so much time. 

Daisy had headed beyond the estate into the forest. A forest that prickled strangely at Basira’s memory. Had there always been a forest surrounding the estate? 

No matter. She trailed Daisy among the trees with the fervor of someone possessed. Surely it wasn’t too late. Surely she could be brought back, somehow. Surely.

There was a building ache in her chest she thought was panic. She fought it as she pushed further from the estate, but it only grew worse and worse. Her skin felt wrong. Her head pounded. Her feet stumbled.

...Were they her feet? Had they always looked like that? What...what had she been doing out here?

Basira stopped. The trees swayed and bled in her twisting vision. She raised a hand to her eyes, to ease the sudden pulsing in her head. Her palm caught her eye. Had...had her hand always looked like that? She curled her fingers, and watched polished wood and metal joints respond. 

Circus music danced in her head, soothing away jagged thoughts. _This is right,_ it sang. _Nothing is wrong. This is what you have always been. You have simply never known._

There was a howl in the distance, and it pierced through the music. And then the mannequin wood crawling up her body splintered like knives under her skin and she could not contain a shriek of pain. It inched over and under her skin like thousands of needles and thread, seeking to cover, consume. 

In her panic, she thought of Sasha James and muffled screaming. She thought of being covered over and forgotten like a body stuffed in the walls. 

The splinters burrowed and crawled in her skin like insects, inch by inch up her arms and her shoulders. She had taken to stumbling back in the direction she remembered the estate to be, pain radiating in her side and that haunting music in her head blurring any progress she might have made.

When she fell, she couldn’t find the strength in limbs that weren’t quite her own anymore to stand up again. 

She lost time. Lost sense of everything that wasn’t the music in her head and the feeling of splinters inching through her skin. Her eyes snapped open when she heard footsteps, heavy breaths. She looked, bleary eyed, to see the hulking mass next to her. A wet nose brushed her cheek. 

“Daisy,” she gasped out. 

The wolf whined in answer, but the pain was crawling up at her shoulder now, and the music was too loud in her ears. She could feel it trying to rewrite her, to unmake her. To force her into something new and nameless and faceless. 

She heard Daisy howl, long and mournful, but the music swelled like a wave and forced her under. 

When she woke, it was to the feeling of being dragged across the ground. Strong hands gripped her under her arms, pulling her along. Her vision blurred and swirled, but as she glanced at them she could make out one thing. Polished wood. 

A surge of fear gave her the strength to twist in their grasp, throwing them off balance and sending them to the ground as she rolled to her feet. She heard them cry out, and there was something familiar about it, but she didn’t have the time to pinpoint it. Her gun was in her hands—strange, foreign hands that were not her own—before she had registered who she was pointing it at.

Tim stared at her, wide-eyed in the dirt, his hands half-raised. Marionette hands. Mannequin hands. Basira felt bile rise up in her throat at the sight. A matching set, like hers. “It’s _me_ , Basira. Do you mind?” he said, his eyes flickering to the gun warily. 

Basira lowered it, the adrenaline that had taken over already fading. She could feel the pain again, and the music just at the edges of her perception. She gave her head a hard shake. “What...what are you doing out here?”

Tim clambored to his feet. “I’m here to get _you_. And a good thing too, look at you. It’s almost swallowed you whole—” 

“What has?” She looked again at his hands, feeling sick. “What’s happening to us?”

“I’ll explain on the way, we have to get back. _Now._ Come on,” he said. He looked her over. “Are you alright to walk?”

Cautiously, Basira took a step. Her leg wobbled, but held up. “I think so,” she murmured. “For now, at least.”

“Good,” Tim said. “We’re almost back, and you were getting heavy.”

Basira scowled at him and fought the urge to wipe that grin off his face. 

Though she didn’t admit to it, walking was strange. The pain was there, the feeling of something other crawling at her skin. It felt like her body was not altogether hers. “Tim, tell me what’s going on,” she grit out, trying to ignore the feeling.

“It’s The Stranger,” he answered, as they maneuvered over tree roots. “Jon tried to See where you were, to make sure you were alright and, well.” He gestured to her and himself. “So he tried to Know what was going on. Apparently, The Stranger…” A familiar, dark anger took over his face. “The Stranger has a much greater foothold in the world now. More so than any of the other fears. And it’s keen to get its hooks in us for disrupting its ritual. We’re safe from it in the estate, where The Eye has its own small foothold in the world. All the other fears are...holding tight to their avatars now. We think that’s what happened to Daisy. And probably Melanie too.”

Basira stared at the ground before her, trying to ignore the pain and the music that wanted to lull her mind. She wanted to go back to Daisy, to find her again, but every minute out here was slowly tearing her apart. “Fuck,” she said, with feeling. 

“Seconded,” Tim muttered. 

“So Jon’s alright, then?” 

“Define alright.”

“ _Tim.”_

“He’s alive,” Tim shrugged. “But being so close to that book when The Stranger was spewing out did something to him.”

Basira looked at him sharply. “What?”

“Yeah, let’s just say he doesn’t exactly look like Jon anymore. And even trying to look at him... _hurts._ ”

“Fuck.”

“Yup,” he said, popping the p. 

They struggled forward in silence. Tim’s clenched jaw and trembling steps hinted that he was feeling the same, splintering pain. Basira could see The Stranger’s manifestation crawling up his arms slowly. Could feel it on her own flesh needling at the skin on her neck. The urge to give in to it was growing stronger as well. The music more insistent. 

After far too long, the estate swelled up in the distance, a great, pretentious relief. Their steps quickened despite the pain. She never thought The Eye would be her salvation. 

“How did you find me out there?” Basira murmured, her throat moving strangely with The Stranger climbing up her face. 

“Jon told me whereabouts I should look,” he answered, leaning forward to open the gate. He looked at her then. “But really I just followed the howling.”

Basira felt as though his words reached into her and hollowed her out. “Oh.”

“Daisy was gone by the time I found you. But...I suppose that bodes well. That she didn’t eat you.”

“Right,” Basira muttered, following him through the threshold. Any lingering worry over Daisy was, for a moment, forgotten when the near constant pain splitting under her skin stopped as she passed through the gate. She breathed a sigh of relief and heard Tim echo it. 

“So we’ve graduated from getting sick if we try to quit, to getting turned into monsters after a few steps,” Tim said, flexing his new hands in front of his face and scowling. “Excellent.”

* * *

They found Jon and Sasha by Elias’ body. Well. She assumed it was Jon under that strange hood, and Tim sauntered up to them easily enough. It also helped that he straightened at their approach and murmured, in Jon’s voice, “good. You’re alright.”

“ _Define—_ ”

“Tim, shut it,” Basira growled. The brief silence that followed wasn’t exactly a respite, given how tense it felt. Jon was staring at the body on the floor and Sasha looked like she was trying not to. Tim looked like he was trying to act unperturbed but his face was slightly green. “So the fucker’s still dead then,” Basira said.

“Good riddance,” Tim added weakly.

Jon didn’t say anything. Just stared down at what used to be Elias Bouchard with those strange new glowing eyes.

“New look, Jon?” Tim asked. Jon looked up at him. Those glowing eyes narrowed slowly. “I...I mean the...you know the hood thing,” Tim clarified, sounding cowed.

Basira had no idea what Jon looked like under there, but judging by the uncomfortable silence, she determined it wasn’t great. 

“It’s from artifact storage,” Sasha supplied, her voice quiet. “Seemed like it would work.”

Basira looked to Jon, but he’d returned his staring down at Elias. She studied him. His arms were wrapped around himself, knuckles white, hands shaking. She knew Elias looked a sight, but she couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t more than that. Jon had known Elias best out of all of them after all. And while she knew Jon hadn’t exactly liked him... 

She wondered what it must be like. To be made into something you didn’t understand, and to have the only person that _did_ understand ripped away from you. She could wrap her head around the need to mourn that. 

“So what do we do now?” Basira asked. Tim and Sasha looked at her mutely, but it hadn’t really been their attention she’d been after. “Jon?”

Jon looked up slowly, blinking as if through a fog. Finally, he straightened. “We use the book,” he said.

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ Tim growled, literally baring his teeth. “We use what got us into this mess in the first place—” 

“Why?” Basira interjected calmly, leveling a raised brow at the stare Tim shot her.

“Because there’s still power left in it,” Jon murmured. “And I’m not about to let it slip away, when it can fix this.” He raised his head and straightened his back and for a moment, despite the hood, he looked and sounded like Jon again. “We research. The book’s been used before, so we find more statements. Annabelle knew of four. There may be more. We look for them. We get more information. Then, we unlock the power left in there and we use it again.”

“That’s _insane,”_ Tim grit out.

“Well, what do you suggest, then?” Jon shot back, hands clenched. 

Silence.

“We don’t know the extent of the damage we’ve caused yet. And I can’t—” He cut off and paused. His voice returned forcibly calm. “I can’t just know things anymore. Not easily. Not without extensive effort. So. For now, we observe and we research. Then, we can work on using the book again.”

When he looked up at them again, there were no voices of protest. 

* * *

As it turned out, they didn’t have to search hard. The Archive was not as they’d left it. There was a statement waiting for them on Jon’s desk, littered with fresh, gleaming spiderwebs.

Basira thought of eye sockets crawling with spiders and puppet strings, and wondered if The Web wasn’t laughing at them from on high. 

Jon read it aloud, disgust and poorly concealed fear catching at the edges of his voice. It was the fourth statement of the book, the one he hadn’t found before. Gift-wrapped courtesy of The Web, revealed to them only after they’d performed exactly as they were supposed to. 

It was given by the brother of a farmer in Missouri, 1937. Joseph Callahan described his brother, Adam Callahan, and his anxieties of inheriting his father’s plots of land. Adam described to him pervasive fears of famine plaguing the land and ruining everything he’d been gifted by their father. Upon their father’s death, a woman claiming to be a distant relative came to Adam and offered him the book as a parting gift, in honor of his father. _To ease your mind,_ the woman had supposedly said to him. 

Well, Adam had used the book. Used it and filled it with his fear of The Corruption. 

After that, his fields were untouched by any blight or pests that affected his neighbors' crops. His wealth grew, his worries subsided. This good fortune lasted for almost a year and a half. 

Adam had kept the fear in the book for all that time, never needing to use it. Never thinking to do so at all. But at that point, Joseph described in the statement, things started to go wrong. Adam wrote to him describing that all the plants in the house had begun to wither and die, holes appearing in their leaves as if from insects that he could never find. 

After a few months, it spread to the animals of the farm. Disease and infection ran rampant, and, frantic, Adam finally opened the book up again. 

Its pages were ragged, peppered with holes and reeking of disease. Festering open sores welling ink. Leaking out malady after malady. 

The last letter Adam wrote to his brother described his resolve to use the book further. To release the power inside and prevent it from destroying his farm. But he never got a chance to do so.

Joseph had learned what happened to him in the papers. Adam had been in an accident with some malfunctioning machinery. He’d bled to death in the fields. It had been a long time before anyone found him, and an even longer time before he could be identified. 

The fields of his farm—even those of his neighbors sprawling miles away—had been decimated. The soil brittle. Animals dead and putrefying. Crops disintegrating at a touch of wind. 

And the people in town began to die. Sickness ravaging them with frightening speed.

Neighbors—ill with wracking coughs and pulsing boils—had been adamant that it all happened at once. Not over time, not gradually. No. At 3:45pm on a Tuesday afternoon. 

Matching the coroner’s estimated time of death for one unrecognizable Adam Callahan exactly.

In the silence after Jon had finished reading, Basira barely heard them breathing. 

“What does that mean for us?” she asked slowly.

Jon shook his head. His hands shook where they clutched the stained, aged pages of Joseph Cahallan’s statement. “It means...it means we are now on a deadline. We either use the fear left in there to fix this or...”

“Or it all leaks out, bit by bit, and we and the world are consumed by The Stranger in the process?” Tim finished, scathing.

Silence. 

“ _Excellent.”_

* * *

The true extent of the damage they’d done revealed itself that night. It had been so quiet during the day, the town adjacent so unscathed that they’d thought perhaps it hadn’t all been that bad. Perhaps not enough of The Stranger had escaped to make much of an impact at all.

Then, night fell, and hell broke loose. The Stranger had always preferred the cover of darkness. And now it owned the dark, and was well on its way to owning them and everyone else.

So they searched for an answer, a way to unlock the book. And it sat there, mocking them, bleeding out more and more of The Stranger as the years sprawled on. 

Hope had dwindled. Tempers frayed shorter and shorter. They were, perhaps, well on their way to going mad with the nothingness of their existence when a stranger finally, after three long years, stumbled onto their doorstep.

* * *

The hand Martin gripped his mug with—his good hand, not ruined, not pulsing with pain—trembled badly. The silence was palpable, and he knew they all watched him while he shook. He placed it, slowly, on a shelf at his left, afraid he might drop it. 

The tea in it had gone cold, left largely untouched. He couldn’t bring himself to drink it while he heard those horrors and now...

Realization churned in his gut, and it wasn’t pleasant. He felt ill. He felt dizzy with it. The words in the book, the poem left carefully legible around all that leaking ink, flashed in his mind. 

_When Beholding lies in the belly of The Stranger,_

_Doors will open for the one._

_He must take heart through reckless danger_

_So they might all see the sun._

_When I Do Not Know You crosses over_

_Watcher must, by the one, be Seen,_

_Lest Stranger’s power carry over_

_And null the line between._

“You think I’m the one. _The_ one, in the poem,” Martin murmured, his voice barely audible.

“It makes sense,” Sasha said softly, as if she sensed his disquiet. 

“You have opened a lot of doors you weren’t supposed to, mate,” Tim added, though his grin seemed slightly more muted than it had before their lengthy explanation. 

“You found us,” Jon said, his voice strained, tired. Martin saw fatigue in the slump of his shoulders. “That means something.”

“I didn’t mean to come here!” Martin protested, adamant. “I didn’t—I didn’t even know this place _existed—_ ”

“And don’t you think that’s strange?” Jon countered, leaning forward. “That you’ve never heard of The Magnus Estate, a great sprawling pillar of knowledge and wealth? Right outside of town? Strange that no one has ever mentioned it in passing?” 

Martin searched for a reply, but found he couldn’t find a suitable one. 

“It’s because this place doesn’t exist anymore,” Basira said, sat leaning against one of the shelves now. Her voice was calm and level as always. “We were surprised and suspicious to see you here because people _don’t_ find this place. They don’t stumble on it like you do. We’ve seen—” She paused, swallowing, but when she spoke again her voice sounded the same. “We’ve seen people ripped apart feet from the gates, with no idea help was right across the way.”

“The Stranger keeps the world from seeing us. And The Eye keeps us from The Stranger,” Jon said. “But it won’t last. We need to use whatever power the book has left, and use it now.”

Martin gaped at him. “So, what, I’m just supposed to... _see_ the _watcher?_ What does that _mean?_ Is it _you?_ I’m supposed to...“ His voice did something funny, going a little too high. “What does that mean.”

Jon cleared his throat, his fingers drumming against the desk at his back. “Well. We have some, um. _Different_ interpretations as to what the book might want. I happen to think it means that you have to come to know The Eye. The Ceaseless Watcher. And that means...reading statements. It would make sense, given how weak The Eye has become in comparison to The Stranger. But Sasha has often pointed out that...there is a more figurative interpretation that’s possible.”

Tim snickered, and Jon shot what looked like a scathing glare at him. 

Sasha jumped in. “Watcher might actually mean Jon himself. He might need to be known, need to be seen. Sort of like...a reversal of the role. The...poems in the book, we’ve learned, heavily favor irony,” she said. “Or it might be a bit of both. You may need experience with The Eye to be able to...well. Literally see Jon under The Stranger.”

“It’ll definitely be a trial,” Tim piped up. “Jonny dearest does so hate to be scrutinized.”

Jon exploded. “Will you _leave off—_ ”

“Tim, honestly...” Sasha admonished.

Martin took in the chaos mutely, a hollow feeling carving its way through his stomach. 

“Regardless,” Jon finally said loudly, cutting through the clamor techily, “we have no room for error, so. We’ll just have to approach the issue as if the answer is...all of the above. We’ll figure it out. What’s important is that you’re here,” he said, looking at Martin, his voice so very sincere and so very sure.

They all looked at him again, and Martin felt sick. The more Martin ran it through his head, the more ridiculous it all sounded. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re wrong.”

Jon blinked at him. “What?”

“I...” Martin glanced at all of them, at their faces turning to confusion, as if the reason wasn’t glaringly obvious. A disbelieving laugh escaped him. “You all can’t actually think that. You think _I’m_ supposed to _save_ you? What, I’m the one, the _only one_ who can stop this? I—” he scoffed. “Christ, I mean, _look_ at me. I’m nobody. I’m no one. I’m not a hero. I didn’t mean to come here. And I don’t want to be. I just want to go home.”

“There won’t be a home for you to go back to if we don’t _fix_ this,” Jon grit out, and Martin prickled at the inherent condescension. 

“Fix what _you broke,_ you mean?” he spat back, an ugly, wounded part of him relishing the way Jon flinched. “You get to just end the world, and heap the responsibility of that on _me_?”

“That’s not fair,” Sasha told him, an undercurrent of steel in her voice. “The world hasn’t ended. Not yet. Maybe it’s well on its way, but.” Her voice softened as she leaned forward, her eyes pleading. “Surely it’s worth trying. If there’s any chance at all to turn the world back.”

Martin looked down, grinding his teeth together. This was too big. Too much. He wasn’t...he wasn’t meant for this. He was _no one._ And yet, the very thought—turn the world back—buzzed in his mind like a fly. 

He was always afraid these days. Everyone was. They had been fighting an enemy they didn’t understand, that clawed at them from the dark and took and took and took. But if there really was a way to end it...

“Let him think on it,” Basira said, cutting through the storm in his head. Martin looked up at her, meeting her level gaze. He thought he saw understanding there. “Let him process,” she said to the rest of them. “He deserves that much.”

“Thank you,” he told her, genuinely grateful. 

And yet, even as they all trickled out and he was left alone with his thoughts, all he could see on the backs of his eyelids was the hope painted on their faces. Sasha’s words rattled in his ears, echoing and settling deep in his chest. 

_Turn the world back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA I am posting this at like 11:55pm where I am, so technically it's still Wednesday. I made it!!! Pacific standard time bitches!!  
> Hehehe
> 
> Anyways, lemme know what ya'll think! Thoughts, guesses, inarticulate flailing?


	9. The Trailing Fog

Martin hated his room. Perhaps because it wasn’t even _his,_ for a start. But there was something about its cavernous space, its pervasive emptiness that felt like it was slowly clawing open Martin’s chest. 

The quiet ate at him. It was colder than he would have liked. And yet, it was the one place he could really think, uninterrupted, without people looking at him expectantly. 

The poem in the book ran through his mind, a demented loop. 

_Take heart through reckless danger._ Martin had already had far more excitement than he’d ever wanted in his life. But then...what would be the alternative? Watch the world waste away around him, while hiding in his flat every night? His life hadn't exactly been glamorous. But it had been safe enough. Quiet.

Hadn’t he just decided he hated the quiet?

Martin groaned, falling back onto the bed and pressing his fingers against his eyes. His other hand still ached, a muted pain when he left it alone, and a sharp, lancing pain when he tried to twitch his fingers. A testament to how woefully helpless he was. 

Him? Save the world? Was that some kind of cosmic joke? 

And yet...if there really was a chance, as Sasha had pointed out, wasn’t he obligated to try? Especially now that he knew things were only going to get worse, he couldn’t just...do _nothing._ The very idea of rolling over and doing nothing repulsed him. But he knew himself. He wasn’t anything special. Surely they were all interpreting this wrong. Surely it wasn’t actually him. 

But did he even have a choice? They weren’t going to let him go, not when they thought he was meant to help them, to undo what had been done. 

So. There he was. Forced into a role he didn’t want and couldn’t refuse. Martin’s head ached. The light streaming in from the windows behind him was too bright. He rolled off the bed and onto unsteady feet, yanking the curtains shut. 

The room plunged into darkness felt even larger than before, darkness pooling in the distant corners, and Martin hated it so very much. 

He pulled on a sweater Tim had given him—it must have been oversized because it fit Martin perfectly—and climbed back into bed. His stomach grumbled at him, complaining that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he made no move to get up. In the quiet and the dark, no one expected anything of him. He burrowed his face farther into the neck of the sweater, trying to stave away the slight chill. 

It was a long time before he managed to drift off, with the thoughts of the book and The Stranger and The Eye clanging around in his head. When he finally managed it, sleep was anything but restful. He dreamed, fitfully, of cavernous rooms filled with fog that scorched his lungs, and the feeling of eyes prickling at the back of his neck.

* * *

The next morning, Martin ventured out almost as soon as he woke. The walls of his room had stretched out too far, and yet felt as though they pressed in on him at the same time, the quiet ringing in his ears. He had had quite enough of being left alone with his thoughts. 

He drifted toward the kitchen more confidently than the last morning, hunger rumbling in his stomach and a deep yearning for some tea guiding his steps. Tea would help, he reasoned. Tea always helped. 

And it did. Somewhat. Filling his stomach made his head feel clearer. The warmth of the mug and slight caffeination of the tea shook him from the lingering, strange dreams on his mind. But there was still...something nagging at him. An itch at his skin, a prickling feeling running down his spine. 

As if there was someone looking at him, while he was entirely alone.

Martin heard a creak of a floorboard behind him, and whirled around, gripping his mug close to his chest. But there was no one. The kitchen was abandoned, no cookware in sight other than what he’d used to make his breakfast. After all, what use was a kitchen for people that didn’t need to eat?

Martin returned his attention to the table in front of him, staring at the grains of wood with blurry eyes, his heart still thundering in his chest. The silence pressed down on him, oppressive. After a few minutes, movement and golden light flickered at the corner of his vision. 

Again, he whirled, but there was nothing. Nothing but an empty kitchen.

An uneasy fear crept up Martin’s throat like a vice. There was no one. No one there. It had seemed like there had been though. Just for a moment. He pushed away from the table, grabbing his mug and fleeing the room. Unsure if the feeling that followed him was the hollow, frightening surety that he was utterly alone, or the creeping feeling that he hadn’t actually been alone at all. 

Martin wandered, growing increasingly desperate to see anyone else, to shake the feeling of aloneness clinging to his skin like a film. It was an irrational fear. He knew. But repeating that fact didn’t make his heart beat any slower. 

After a few minutes, he saw Basira at the end of a hall, leaning back against the window with a book in her lap.

He barely stifled a sigh of relief upon seeing her, and then felt foolish for having been so irrationally afraid. Of course everyone was still there. Of course he wasn’t alone. He was just tired, having slept fitfully, his mind playing tricks.

Basira glanced up at him at his approach, an eyebrow quirking. “You look like shit.”

Martin blinked. “Do I?”

“Sorry if that’s news,” she said, dog-earing a corner of the page and closing it. She peered up at him, eyes narrowed. “You look like a ghost that hasn’t slept in a week. You alright?”

Martin rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away. “Well enough, I suppose. What are you reading?” he asked, changing the subject. He didn’t particularly want to linger on that line of conversation. 

“ _Tales of the Unexpected_. Gets less unexpected when you’ve read it already, but what can you do. Feels like I’ve read every book in here—other than, you know, the cursed ones,” she said.

“No,” Martin replied, wide-eyed. “I don’t. _Cursed?_ ”

“Mm. Mostly from the Library of Jurgen Leitner. Don’t worry,” she added, at his concerned expression, “they’re all locked up tight at the back of The Archive.”

“Oh,” Martin breathed. “That’s good I guess. So where’d you get that one, then?” he asked, pointing at the book in her hands.

She raised both brows, slowly. “Library.”

“There’s a library? Not just The Archive?” He felt himself brightening at the very thought. He’d always liked libraries. There was nothing quite like a book to escape in when the rush of the world got too loud.

“There is,” she confirmed, wry amusement in her voice as she looked up at him. “Would you like me to show you?”

* * *

The library was wonderful. A room not as towering or great as The Archive, but cozier. Great bookshelves took up the walls floor to ceiling, leaving the rest of the room furnaced with comfortable chairs, two sofas, and a few desks near the back of the room. A large, inlaid fireplace took up the space to the left of the entryway.

Martin wandered in after Basira, a smile growing on his face. “Oh, I could spend days in here,” he murmured.

“We all used to, in the early days,” she said, looking around as if trying to see the room through new eyes. “We were all looking for ways to pass the time, when we found out we couldn’t leave.”

Martin blinked, turning and frowning at her. “But you don’t anymore?”

“Well,” Basira shrugged. “I guess after a while trying to pass the time felt more like...hopelessly waiting for it all to be over. And that wasn’t going to get us anywhere, so.”

“You must have had to do _something_ to pass the time,” Martin reasoned.

“Yeah. We researched,” she said. Then, she looked at him pointedly and added, “and we waited for you to show up. Once it was clear the book wasn’t talking about any of us.”

Martin glanced away, wrapping his arms around himself. “Right.”

He could feel Basira watching him with her calm, dark eyes. “Have you thought on it?”

“I have,” Martin answered softly. 

“And?”

“It’s not as if it’s actually a choice, is it? None of you will let me leave if I say no.”

Basira tilted her head slightly. Martin wondered at how she managed to keep her thoughts off her face. He saw nothing but that seemingly unshakeable calm. “Do you want to say no?” she asked.

Martin took a steadying breath, his eyes tracing over the panes of the windows to the left of the room. “If the stakes are what they are, I don’t think I can.”

“Yeah, suppose it wouldn’t speak very well of you, if you put yourself before the whole world,” she said wryly. 

It took Martin a second to realize it was a joke, as straight-faced as she’d spoken it. He tried for a smile and was sure it was anything but convincing. “Suppose so,” he managed.

“Really though, Martin,” she said, after a moment. “It’s not all on your shoulders. We’re all fighting for the same thing. You’re not alone in this.”

Martin swallowed hard. It was almost eerie how close those words were to what actually weighed on his mind. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

Basiira nodded, once, as if that was that. “You’ll get used to the whole ‘world-ending’ schtick eventually.”

Martin snorted. “Will I?”

“We’ve already been through the song and dance before,” she quipped, a small smile on her face.

“I seem to recall the story going rather poorly.”

“You know what they say.”

“If you mean ‘third time’s the charm,’ that’s less than inspiring.”

“Hell, if we have to go through this shit for a third time, I might—” Basira cut off, her attention caught on the window. She moved towards it, looking out. 

“What?” Martin trailed after her, following her gaze. At the gate, waiting and settled in the snow was a large, grey wolf.

“Ah, shit,” Basira breathed, though there wasn’t any fire in it. In fact, Martin saw the most genuine smile he’d ever seen from her flash on her face. Basira whirled to gather up the book she’d been reading, then moved to search among the shelves. Martin trailed her, confused and intrigued. “She’s going to be so pissy that she’s had to wait,” Basira said, scanning the shelves purposely.

“Wha—is she coming in?” Martin asked, wide-eyed. He tried to keep the slight unease out of his tone. He knew Daisy was...like the rest of them, at least for the most part.

“No. She can’t. We meet at the gate, around noon most days,” Basira explained, as she searched for...whatever she was searching for. “Jon and I figured out it was a good reminder for her. A reminder that she’s not all Hunt. Where did I _put_ it?” she asked under her breath, hissing.

“Oh,” Martin said, taking this in. He furrowed his brow, running through what she’d said. “What do you mean she can’t come in?”

“This is The Eye’s domain now,” she answered, her fingers rifling along the shelves. “And Daisy was claimed by The Hunt long before The Eye had any stake in it. She can’t cross the barrier because her roots to The Hunt were stronger. The Hunt called her back and The Eye rejected her,” she explained, a hint of bitterness in her voice and twisting her expression.

“I’m sorry,” Martin said softly. 

Basira paused in her search for a moment, her shoulders moving up and down with the breath she took. She continued moving a moment later. “It is what it is,” she murmured. After a minute, a look of triumph flashed over her face. “Ah!” she said, pulling out a book and flipping through it. “Finally. Alright, I’m off. Any longer and she might actually get it in her head I don’t want to see her.”

“Could I meet her?” Martin blurted, the thought only half-formed.

Basira frowned pensively, looking him over. After a moment, she said, “best not. She doesn’t know much about you yet. And you’re afraid of her.” 

“And I shouldn’t be?” Martin guessed.

“You very well should. Just not around her. She can smell it.”

“Oh,” Martin managed, his voice too high. 

The corners of Basira’s mouth twitched up. “Maybe someday. I’ll tell her about you today. Warm her up to you.”

“Alright,” he said, a little relieved. Maybe Basira had a point. “I would like to meet her eventually though. You seem very fond of her.”

Basira’s face twitched at that, like she was trying to fight some expression that threatened to take over. She glanced away. “Yeah,” she said, her voice rough. “I’d better head down. Enjoy the library, Martin.”

“I will,” he replied, watching her turn and head out the door.

He drifted to the window, watching Daisy still crouched by the gate. He saw the moment she perked up, when Basira must have come into view. 

Basira settled at the base of the gate on the other side, and began speaking to her, and suddenly in a shifting blur, the wolf became a woman. 

Martin stared in utter shock. He took in the angular face, the short-cropped blonde hair. Basira opened the book she’d brought and began reading aloud. The expression on Daisy’s face when she looked at Basira made Martin feel keenly like an intruder in a private moment. A lump in his throat, he turned away from the window. 

He remained in the library for the rest of the day. He wandered around, looking over the numerous shelves, trailing his fingers over a dusty phonograph in the corner that might have been as old as the estate itself, wondering if there were any wax cylinders around that it could play. After he’d explored a bit, he settled down to read nestled on one of the plush sofas, content to let his worries disappear for the moment. It was a wonderful respite. 

But the sun eventually sank, draining the light from the room. Martin tried to ignore the way his eyelids drooped, heavy, and the way the words on the pages started to blur. He conceded when he’d read the same line five times without comprehension. 

Martin returned to his room, hoping exhaustion might help him fall into a sleep that was dreamless. 

It didn’t.

* * *

_He was lost. The cavernous, empty halls he wandered were familiar—he’d walked them before, he knew, with someone at his side, but now—_

_Now he was alone. He was alone and now the halls seemed so very different with the fog and the dark._

_He was alone. Had he always been?_

_...No. No, he had had someone. Someone smart. Capable. Someone he trusted, someone he—_

_What had his name been?_

_What was his own name?_

_His frantic questions were lost to him in a blink, in a curl of fog against his mind. He wandered and he was alone. He wandered and turned corners listlessly, an ache of nothingness in his chest._

_The walls fell away, dissipating like plumes of smoke. A sound echoed in the nothingness, a click that bounced everywhere and nowhere. Like the click of a recorder._

_He took a step forward, searching for the sound. When he did, the floor behind him dropped away into the fog below, a bottomless aching pit. Waiting for him._

_He raced away from it, but it followed him, the floor falling away behind every step he took. The void called for him, its fog hungry. He sobbed in fear of it, the fear of falling forever, fog stinging his lungs, memories torn to pieces._

_He ran and ran, until he ran into something. A figure he could not make out, made of fog themselves. His hands scrambled against them, trying to find purchase, begging them to help him._

_But his hands found only curling, icy fog. The figure was gone, and he was so very alone._

_The ground opened up beneath him like the maw of a great beast. And he fell._

_He forgot everything but his fury._

* * *

Martin gasped awake, clutching his chest as his heart thundered, his breaths fast and shaky with terrified sobs. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. A moment for his eyes to convince his terror-addled mind that there were in fact corners and four walls, that it wasn’t just inky nothingness spreading for miles and miles. 

It felt hard to breathe. Felt like that fog was climbing down his throat and spreading into his lungs like a sickness. 

It was so quiet. The only thing he could hear were his ragged breaths echoing back at him. The terrifying surety that he was utterly alone squeezed at his heart like vice. 

It didn’t feel like a creeping fear, and that was what scared him the most. It felt like a fact. He simply was alone, and he would always be alone, and he would never again see another face but his own. He knew it as well as he knew the pull of gravity.

The sheets tangled around his legs, cold and heavy, and they suddenly felt like tendrils of fog, gripping at him hungrily. Martin struggled out of them, the panic growing in his chest when it took just a tick too long to stumble out of bed, as if the sheets really were pulling him back. He tugged on his boots at the side of his bed, futilely trying to stop his hands from shaking as they tied the laces. He fled his room like the fog was behind him, pulling away the floor and threatening to take him under. 

Martin walked the dark halls with his arms wrapped around himself, trying to draw in what warmth he could. He felt nearly frantic with the need to assure himself that he wasn’t actually alone. There were _four_ other people living in the estate after all, it shouldn’t have been hard. But his chest felt heavy, his stomach a roiling pit. There was something in him that felt as though he hadn’t seen another soul in _years._

He walked, the gloomy, weighty surety of his aloneness pulling at his shoulders and his chest. Even the air in his lungs seemed heavier, weighty like a cold, wet fog. 

Martin looked up, down the end of the corridor, just in time to see a flash of light and movement, as if someone with a torch or lantern had just turned the corner. A sharp intake of breath caught in his throat. He quickened his steps, following around the corner. 

In the distance, Martin saw shadows of painting frames and light fixtures bend and arch as whoever it was turned the next corner. Martin cursed under his breath, racing faster after them. If he could just _see_ who it was, he could dispel this irrational fear once and for all. When he turned into the next hallway, however, it was dark. Completely empty.

But under one of the doors on the left, he could see that golden light shining faintly through the crack underneath. Martin approached the door slowly. “Hello?” he whispered tentatively.

There was no answer. Seemingly no movement from whoever was behind the door. The golden light from the torch or lantern didn’t move or flicker. 

Martin studied the door. It was an ornate, opulent thing. Not too large though, not like the large double doors to The Archive. An old office, perhaps? Martin glanced down at the golden light under the door. He reached for the door handle. The metal was cold against his palm. Like no one had touched it in ages. 

Martin turned the handle. Or...tried to. It twisted about a centimeter or two before catching on a lock. Martin’s face creased in confusion. He glanced down again, but the light from under the door was gone. As if it had never been there at all. 

Martin couldn’t pull his eyes away from the door. Surely there was someone still in there. Tim or Sasha maybe? He was about to knock on the door, when he heard something. It was a low drone, coming from farther down the hall at his right. The sound rose and fell ever so slightly, rumbling through the air almost imperceptibly. Like a voice.

Martin pulled away from the door and followed the voice, feeling almost ghost-like, drifting nearly mindlessly towards it. It grew louder as he approached, low and rumbling and familiar. 

He traced the voice to the double doors of The Archive. Martin stood there, listening. The sound was too muted from behind the doors to allow him to make out any words. Still, the low, warm tone of another voice had the heaviness in Martin’s chest dissipating away like smoke. Like a fog crawling away to seek new, lonely corners to invade.

It was...a soothing sound. A suitable reminder that he wasn’t alone. Martin listened and felt himself lilting on his feet, the fatigue that had been chased away by panic flooding back with a vengeance. Shakily, he made to sit against the wall, with the great doors to The Archive at his right. With the back of his head pressed against the wall, he could hear the voice a little better. It curled in the air, rich and smooth. Martin let the low rumble of it wash over him, his eyes falling closed. 

The next thing Martin was aware of was a creak of hinges, and then, before his sleep-addled mind could determine what that meant, something hard and solid bonked against the right side of his head. Martin cursed, twisting awkwardly to press his good hand against his throbbing temple. He barely heard the muttered “what on earth?” from behind the now open door before Jon appeared around it, staring down at him. 

Martin stared back, trying to will away the embarrassed flush that was no doubt crawling over his face. 

Jon was silent for far too long, just looking down at him, his confusion palpable. “What are you _doing?_ ”

Martin knew his flush was out of his control now. He could actually feel the heat on his cheeks. He couldn't very well say what he was actually doing there could he? That he had just been passing by and thought Jon’s voice sounded actually quite lovely and had stopped to listen. And he certainly couldn’t say that Jon’s presence now—another person, a real, live, genuine person—soothed away that lingering fear in his chest. The thought of admitting to that sounded mortifying. So, instead, Martin said techily, “well I was sitting peacefully until someone decided to ram a door into my head.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t take the bait. Martin didn’t really have a leg to stand on with that argument anyway. He _had_ settled stupidly close to the door. 

“You shouldn’t be wandering around at night,” Jon said, his voice low, warning. 

What an inconvenient discovery, to find that he liked the sound of Jon’s voice. Here he was trying to berate him, and Martin could do nothing but fixate on the pleasing rumble of it. Martin blinked up at him and took a moment to answer. Perhaps he could blame it on the mild head injury, if it came to it. “Why?”

“Because,” Jon answered irritably. 

Martin waited, but Jon said nothing more. Martin scoffed, refraining from pointing out that that only served to make him more motivated to wander. “Right.”

Jon continued to just stare at him. Martin almost snapped at him to stop, when Jon finally gestured to The Archive and said, “did you want to come in?”

Martin hesitated. A part of him did. A desperate, shaky part of him still didn’t want to be alone. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt you,” he decided on. 

“That ship has sailed,” Jon told him dryly. He held out a hand for Martin to take. 

Martin stared at it for a moment, his eyes drifting over the whirling scar on his palm that looked decidedly like a burn. He clasped it with his good hand before he hesitated long enough for Jon to pull away. Jon helped him to his feet with that strength that didn’t match his slight frame. 

Martin realized, about the same time as Jon, that they were standing very close, hands still clasped. Jon cleared his throat and dropped Martin’s hand, turning to the open Archive. “Come on then,” he said, the words sounding like they stuck in his throat a bit. 

Martin followed, distracted by the strange, fluttering feeling in his chest. His hand tingled with lingering warmth when it had before felt cold as ice. 

The familiar features of The Archive were before him. Martin had never been inside at night, and found the large room lit warmly by a number of electric bulbs spaced out evenly among the walls. Jon’s desk at the center was lit by a lamp at the corner, papers and a cassette player on its surface. But the gentle light of The Archive was not what kept his attention. Instead, Martin found himself transfixed by the towering windows of The Archive and what lay beyond. 

“I was just finishing recording some statements when...Martin?” 

He could feel Jon’s questioning gaze on him, but Martin, for the life of him, could not look away. He had been there so many nights already, but the first few were so filled with terror, and then he had slept through the rest, but here, on the second story where the enormous windows provided a view of the sky above the trees—

Martin couldn’t draw his eyes away, and he didn’t want to. The windows offered a breathtaking view of the glittering, star-filled night sky. He realized, in that moment, that it had been three long years since he’d last been able to look up at the night sky, unafraid. 

He wanted to cement the image in his memory, wanted to keep it on the backs of his eyelids always. They had all taken it for granted before, and he didn’t know when it might be ripped away from him again. 

Martin heard Jon come up next to him and felt his presence at his side, but Jon didn’t say anything. Martin could feel his eyes on him. He just needed a moment more. A moment more to look and take it in. He felt his eyes welling up and tried to blink it away. “So, you...as an avatar of The Eye,” Martin murmured, in an attempt to distract from the emotion welling up in his throat, “does that mean you know everything?”

“Hardly,” Jon answered, though his voice sounded...uncharacteristically soft. “No one can know everything all at once. It’s more like...I can have access to little bits of everything. Or, well. I used to be able to. It’s harder now, with how powerful The Stranger’s become, with its influence...crawling all over me. Like fumbling around in the dark, when I used to know exactly where all the lights were.”

“Oh,” Martin said weakly. That sounded...awful. To have had something like that and to have it stripped away. What he’d been about to ask seemed childish in comparison to that admission. 

“Why?” Jon asked. 

Martin swallowed around the tightening of his throat. “I...it’s just...I was wondering if you knew any constellations.” He flushed, mortified as soon as he’d said it. His treacherous mouth continued to ramble, trying to explain. “I never really took the time to learn about constellations. What they looked like and where they were. It never really seemed important before. I was just...I was just wondering about them. I mean, I never really understood how people could see things so clearly in the stars, because it’s all just randomness. There’s no real order to where stars ended up, but people decided to find some for themselves and I just. I don’t think I understood why, before, but I feel like I understand a little better now.”

Jon was tellingly silent beside him, and Martin couldn’t meet his eyes. Christ, what was wrong with him? Here they all were, the fate of the world in their hands, and he was getting emotional over some stars? No doubt Jon was questioning if he’d really interpreted the book right. Martin was not selling himself very well. He felt his face heat. “Sorry,” Martin mumbled, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. “I was just...it’s stupid.”

Martin chanced a glance at Jon when there was nothing but silence, and caught the tail-end of a look he couldn’t hope to interpret, without being able to see Jon’s face. Jon faced the stars instead, and Martin thought his eyes looked, briefly, brighter. 

Then, Jon moved, his arm extending and finger pointing, and he said, softly, “ursa minor is the clearest one to see from here.”

Martin’s breath caught in his throat, surprised. He looked in the direction Jon was pointing, following the shape Jon traced in the sky. 

“Oh,” Martin breathed. “I see it.”

“According to Greek mythology, Ursa Minor and Ursa Major sit in the sky so one can always look over the other,” Jon murmured. 

Martin tried to focus on the story Jon told. He really did. But his attention kept shifting to the pervasive warmth of another person at his side and the rise and fall of Jon’s voice. The way his voice curled over vowels and sometimes slipped right over consonants. 

It took a moment to realize when Jon finished. “Thank you,” Martin said softly. It seemed too small to encompass the gratitude he felt. The chill in his chest had long ago faded to nothing.

Jon nodded jerkily, glancing down and away. “I, um. I have more statements to record tonight,” he said. 

“Oh.” Martin tried not to feel strangely disappointed. “I can leave if you’d—”

“No. No, it’s fine.” Jon met his eyes, then looked away quickly, shifting and glancing at his desk. “I—actually, I just finished with a statement that...well. Some of them can be particularly unpleasant to read, but this last one wasn’t too bad. Would you like to...?” 

Martin blinked, before remembering what Jon had said the day before. That Martin might have to read statements. “Oh! I, um. I suppose I can?”

“Right,” Jon said. “Good, that’s—good. Here,” he said, leading Martin toward the desk. He picked up the first few pages at the top, and flipped through them, before handing the stack to Martin. “You can use either of the either desks, if you’d like. Sasha and Tim aren’t likely to come in at this hour. Just—don’t read it aloud.”

Questions brimmed in Martin’s mind. Questions like _why are you here so late, then? Do you sleep? Am I intruding when you’d rather be alone?_

But Jon had already turned away, flipping through what was left on his desk. Martin held onto his questions and studied the statement in his hands. It looked old. The paper was curling at the edges, slightly discolored with age. 

Martin drifted to the desk adjacent and took a seat, spreading the pages on the table. His fingers drifted over the curling, scribbled script. He had been curious about the statements. Ever since he’d seen them the first time he’d entered The Archive. They had a pull to them. Like they wanted to be read. 

Martin began reading, slowly and hesitantly. It wasn’t terrible at first. The statement wasn’t a coherent, cohesive story, but rather a collection of letters, sent from one Hezekiah Wakely, a grave digger, to Nathaniel Beale. As Martin read about Wakely’s dreams and his growing obsession with the press of earth and dirt, he found a dread rising in his stomach. 

He wanted to tear his eyes away. To stop reading. But it felt as though his limbs locked up. His eyes could not stop their left to right movement down the pages. Like he was possessed by something that only wanted to consume.

He wanted to shout. Cry out. Jon was three feet away, buried in his own work, seemingly unaware. Martin could hear how he shuffled papers and flipped through pages. But he himself must have been making no sound, because Jon didn’t even glance over. 

He felt caught, pinned. Like an insect to a corkboard, immobile. Something great and larger than himself urging him to continue reading, to turn pages when all he wanted to do was cast them away from him. 

His eyes read over the final line, and, like a damn finally breaking, the sob that had been trapped in his throat rushed out. He saw Jon’s head snap up at the corner of his eye, but paid it no mind. His body was his own again, so he pushed away from the desk violently, the chair toppling over behind him. Martin wound his fist in the fabric of his shirt, right above his heart, and tried to calm the rapid rise and fall of his chest. 

Movement flashed at the corner of his eye, a hand reaching for him, and Martin stumbled away from it. “ _Don’t_ touch me,” he hissed. 

Jon stared at him wide-eyed, hands raised placatingly. “What—?”

“I couldn’t stop reading,” Martin murmured, almost to himself, trying to wrap his head around what had happened. He wrapped his hands around himself. “I couldn’t even look up. What...what _was_ that?”

Jon was silent for a moment, then said pensively, “that’s not supposed to happen the first time.”

Martin’s blood ran cold. “The _first_ time? So it’s expected _later,_ then? Is that what happens to _you_ when you read statements?”

Jon hesitated. “In a way,” he eventually said. “Though, the urge to keep reading is less alien and more...embedded in me.” Martin’s disquiet must have shown in his face because Jon shifted and looked away. “It might be because of how desperate The Eye’s become that you felt it so strongly. You’ll get used to it,” Jon said, his voice flat. 

Martin took a step back, away from Jon. “I’m not doing that again.”

Jon looked at him sharply. When he spoke his voice was angry. “So what? You can’t take a break while reading a statement, so you’re going to put yourself before the whole world?”

“I’m _not_ more important than the whole world, Jon, but I would _rather_ my choices be my own,” Martin snapped back. “There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t,” Jon shot back flatly. 

Martin flushed angrily. “So what, you want me to—to do _that_ until I become like _you?_ Is that it? Is that what’ll do it for that stupid book? I just have to become a—” Martin cut himself off, fuming, but not willing to say something he’d regret.

Jon didn’t drop it though. His voice went cold. “A what?” he asked. “Monster?”

“I didn’t say that,” Martin muttered, looking away. Guilt pooled in his chest. 

“You didn’t have to,” Jon grit out. “You know, while we’re on the subject,” he said lowly, his eyes narrowed, “it might do you well to remember that I could always just _make_ you read them.”

Martin stilled. He stared at Jon, watching him warily, but he made no move towards him. Jon just stood there, fuming. “So do it,” Martin found himself saying, softly.

Jon blinked. “What?”

“Do it, if you’re going to,” Martin told him, louder.

Jon just stared back at him. He didn’t move. 

Martin sighed. He wished he could turn back time before this had all gone wrong. It seemed he wouldn’t find any more solace here tonight than he would in his empty room. He regretted snapping. Regretted...what he’d almost said. But the idea of reading another statement chilled him to the bone. “Right,” Martin murmured. He turned away. “The Archive’s all yours. Sorry to have interrupted you earlier.”

Behind him, he heard a creak of a floorboard, as if Jon had taken a step after him. But then there was silence, and he made no move to stop Martin as he left. 

Instead of cold, lonely fog, for the rest of the night Martin dreamt of the choking press of dirt. It was almost a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooop one step forward and two steps back with these two. 
> 
> So many questions! Strange happenings afoot in the magnus estate. was Martin actually seeing someone or wwas his mind playing tricks??? What's with these strange dreams?? Hmmmmmmm questions questions
> 
> Lemme know what you think! See you next week ;)


	10. The Voice at the Door

The next night, he dreamt it again. The very same dream with fog and familiar corridors and the surety of someone watching him fall. He managed to get a few hours worth of uninterrupted sleep before he was jolted awake by the terror pounding away in his chest. His blood rushed, his chest heaved, his vision blurred. The sensation was jarring, adrenaline keeping him from easily slipping back into sleep. 

Strangely, it didn’t feel, entirely, like fear. The sensation that plagued him when he woke almost felt like...anger. 

Martin stared up at the ceiling above the bed, pressing his palm against his chest as his breathing steadied. These nightmares were as upsetting as they were baffling. Where on earth had they come from? His nightmares had always been of cackling voices that prowled in the night, not of sinister, curling fog. And certainly not of the fear of being alone. 

He’d long ago accepted the familiar feeling of loneliness. Any close relationships he’d had fell away when his mother needed nearly full time care and financial support. And then the monsters came in the dark and there was no time for anything but hiding away and hoping they didn’t find him. Perhaps it wasn’t...the happiest situation, that aloneness, but it certainly wasn’t frightening. It nagged at him. The fears that haunted his dreams didn’t feel entirely like his own. It didn’t seem like a coincidence that they only started up when he’d come to the estate. 

Martin felt restless. The air of his room seemed stale. The windows wouldn’t budge, as nice a view as they offered now that the curtains were pulled away. Moonlight trickled in like mist hanging in the air. Martin sat up as his heartbeat slowed to a more normal rhythm, staring sightlessly into the darkness. Turning, he could just catch a view of the stars through the window, bright and blinding and beautiful. The sight helped to ground him, but also reminded him of the argument he’d had with Jon the night before.

Unbidden, his thoughts circled back to Jon’s voice as he recounted stories of the stars. Something in Martin’s chest ached.

A part of him desperately wanted to search out company again, but he and Jon hadn’t parted on the best of terms. And surely the other man would either be sleeping or working in The Archive again. If it were the latter, running into him would no doubt rehash the argument. 

And Jon had said not to wander around at night. Though, he’d boorishly skirted around explaining _why._

Martin sat in silence for a moment, before deciding he wasn’t about to fall asleep again anytime soon and, well.

He was never very good at following instructions anyway. 

* * *

The halls were only lit in the night by the moonlight streaming through the windows. Martin could scarcely see the ends of the corridors, but strangely didn’t feel intimidated by the fact. This excursion was not the frantic rush of last night, but rather one to satisfy his curiosity. 

Still, the quiet corridors brought to mind Helen’s hallways, long and winding and lonely. 

Martin had considered heading to the library earlier—it would keep him occupied for however long he could keep awake and probably wouldn’t result in running into Jon—but that thought made him pause. He had felt something in Helen’s hallways. Something that had guided him out, guided him where he needed to go. A feeling like a gentle tug around his ribs. A nudge from something beyond him.

He hadn’t given it much thought before, but now, faced with the still unfamiliar corridors and closed rooms of the estate...what had happened was at the forefront of his mind. 

What had that been? Had it actually been Helen? She had said she’d never intended to trap him there forever. Or was it...something else? Something new? Martin shifted on his feet, his boots squeaking in the silence. He wrapped his arms around himself when a draft blew along the floor. 

Martin wondered if he could make it happen again.

Taking a steadying breath, Martin closed his eyes. He swallowed, the sound clicking in his ears, before he spoke. “Okay,” he breathed. “I...I’m not exactly lost. But before, you showed me where to go. Whatever you are. Is...is there anywhere I need to go now?” 

He felt nothing in response, and only heard the creaking sounds of an old house settling against the wind outside. His cheeks burned a little and he couldn’t help but think how ridiculous he must have looked, eyes scrunched tight and mumbling to himself. It was nearly enough to send him to the library anyway, foolish attempt be damned. But he decided to try once more. Just once, and if nothing happened, he would chalk up the instance in Helen’s domain to something he would never understand, or perhaps a fevered delusion he’d had that ended with him just getting lucky.

“Please,” Martin murmured, because it never hurt to be polite, his brow furrowed in concentration. “If you helped me then, help me now. Where should I go?” He studied the backs of his eyelids so intensely that when there was a sudden flash of gold behind them, he startled so badly he nearly fell.

When he opened his eyes to the sprawling corridor, his eyes narrowed and trying to adjust, he didn’t see anything, but he _felt_ it. A gentle nudge urging him forward, down the corridor. 

Now that his survival and sanity didn’t depend on it, he was wary to follow it. But he was so very curious.

“What _are_ you?” he murmured into the dark hallway before him.

There was no verbal answer, not that he really expected one. But he could have sworn the nudging sensation became the slightest bit stronger. Or...was it more of a pull? A beckoning tug like there was a thread tied to his ribs and his heart. 

Martin hesitated. Would it be a terrible decision to follow? It had helped him once, but there was no guarantee of that being the case again. And yet, the urge to move didn’t feel malicious. It didn’t feel like it wanted to hurt him, it felt almost...warm. Familiar.

“If I follow you,” Martin began slowly, “you have to promise not to lead me to my death or anything unpleasant like that.” After a moment, Martin felt a thrumming sensation in his chest, like that invisible thread had been lightly touched, or strummed like a string instrument. “Oh-kay…” he breathed, wide-eyed at what seemed like an actual response. “I hope that means we’re in agreement then.”

With no small amount of trepidation mingling with that insatiable curiosity, Martin began to follow. He carefully took note of every turn of a corner, in case things went south and he had to flee back to his room. Or, worst case, run to The Archive for help. At no point did the pull become painful or rush too fast for him. It remained a constant, gentle touch. Almost a suggestion, if anything. 

His invisible guide finally stopped leading him when Martin reached a nondescript door on the second floor. Martin waited there for a moment, but the sensation seemed to have left him here. He frowned, studying the door, his eyes catching on the deadbolt lock. Martin remembered yesterday, when he’d followed the figure with the lantern light only to find a locked door. The door in front of him now was decidedly different from the last, in a completely different hall, but he couldn’t help but be disappointed by the fact that he wouldn’t be able to see what was inside. 

He waited another moment to see if he might be led somewhere else, but no sensation came. He sighed, reaching out to try the door handle without much optimism. It jiggled, but didn’t turn, the lock holding firm. 

But a moment later, Martin heard scrabbling movement from behind the door. Martin jolted back, wide-eyed. He stayed very still, just listening, but couldn’t make out anything else. As the shock of adrenaline faded, he felt a little foolish. Surely he had just woken someone up when he tried to turn the handle.

But then, why would he have been led there? Martin took another step away from the door.

“Don’t go,” a voice from behind the door rasped.

Martin stiffened, his heart beat hammering in his ears at the confirmation that there was indeed someone behind the door. Their voice was familiar too, it almost sounded like...

“Sasha?” Martin asked tentatively, his brow furrowing.

There was a pause. Then, “ _Martin._ It’s you, thank God.”

Martin frowned at the door, concerned. Sasha sounded strange, almost frantic. Had her voice always been so low? ...Of course it had been. Of course, what was he thinking? The more he thought on it, the more certain he was. “What’s happened? Are you alright?”

“No,” Sasha answered bluntly, “no, I’m not. Martin, you have to get me out of here. _Please.”_

“I... _what?”_ Martin gaped at the door. “What’s going on?”

Another pause. “Martin. Martin, I need you to listen to me very carefully. I’ve been locked in here. You need to get me out.”

Martin felt as though the ground was spiraling away from him. “Locked in? By who? _Why?”_

“Who do you think?” Sasha hissed through the door. Martin could imagine gritted teeth, balled fists. She paused, and then more calmly she said, “they’re not who you think they are, Martin. Please, you need to find the key, or something that I can use to jimmy the lock. Please, Martin.”

But Martin couldn’t move, could only stare at the door as if he could see behind it, his face pale, his chest tight. “I don’t...I saw you earlier today, in...in the kitchens. You were making herbal tea, everything was fine—”

“That _thing,”_ Sasha grit out, her voice trembling with what sounded like rage, “was not me. That was the monster that stole my face.” Martin’s heart thundered in his ears, almost drowning out what she said next. “I don’t know what they told you to convince you they’re on your side, but they’re lying. They’re _monsters,_ Martin, _look at them!_ They’re all of The Stranger, every one of them. Please. They’re using you, and as soon as they’re done with you, they’ll lock you away or worse like they do with me.”

Martin couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t _possible._ Was it? 

Sasha’s voice sounded again, shaky. “Are you still there?”

Martin opened his mouth to respond.

Then, a hand came down on his shoulder, another one clamping over his mouth. Martin startled, huffing a terrified breath through his nose, but then struggled violently, twisting and elbowing his arm back. He heard a grunt from whoever was behind him and tore away from them, whirling around. 

Jon held one hand up, placating, and held one index finger over where his mouth would have been. 

Martin glared at him, breathing hard, too furious and terrified in equal measure to respond.

“Martin?” Sasha’s voice came again, unsure and trembling. 

Martin cast a glance at the door, then back at Jon, who slowly shook his head. The message was clear. _Do not respond._ Watching Jon warily, Martin said nothing. 

“Martin,” Sasha continued, sounding increasingly desperate, “Martin, please. Please, you...I know you know what this is like. They locked you away that first night, right? You know what it’s like. Please.” She sobbed behind the door. Martin took an almost involuntary step closer. Jon stepped between him and the door. Martin paused in his approach. It had been a while since he’d thought of Jon as a threat, but he was decidedly reminded of his unnatural strength and his abilities in that moment. Jon came closer to him and Martin tensed, unwilling to run and leave Sasha behind, but powerless to do anything else. 

Jon ducked down, the weight of his hand on Martin’s shoulder and the fabric of his cloak brushing against Martin’s arm, and whispered, “trust me. Do not answer.”

Martin fought a shiver at the proximity, unsure if it was entirely from fear or the breath that ghosted over his ear.

“Please,” Sasha continued, her voice wet with tears. “Please, you know what it’s like to be cold and hopeless and alone. Please, Martin, I just want to go home. _Please._ ”

Martin didn’t know what to think. All he could focus on was the familiar voice of his friend begging through the door.

“Martin?” Sasha called, her voice wavering. 

With Jon standing beside him, a silent threat if Sasha was right, Martin didn’t dare respond. Her sobs continued, agonizingly, for a moment more, as Martin’s fury and helplessness grew.

But then, the sobbing abruptly stopped. As if a switch had been flipped. 

The silence rang out like a bell, shocking in its abruptness. Martin turned his head to Jon, brows furrowing in confusion. 

But then something, a massive force, banged against the door from the inside, sending plumes dust in the doorframe up into the air, and a bestial, inhuman scream of rage sounded from behind.

Terror lanced through Martin’s chest and he jumped at the sound, ducking behind Jon as his heart hammered in his ears. There was silence after that. It took Martin a few moments after the sheer terror had receded to realize he was gripping Jon’s arm rather hard, and Jon was staring at him. 

Martin let go immediately, willing away the red that no doubt was creeping over his face, but Jon only shook his head and grabbed at Martin’s arm, pulling him down the hallway and away from the door. Martin followed begrudging, acquiescing so easily only because he’d just had the fright of his life. As soon as they were far enough away, Jon let go of him and glared. “ _What_ did I say about wandering around at night?” he grit out.

Martin was fuming before the words even left his mouth. “You didn’t exactly say _why,_ did you?”

Jon took an audible huff of a breath, glancing away. “I had thought Sasha might have told you already,” he said, his voice measured.

“Well, she didn’t! What _was_ that? It sounded like…” Martin closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath, the memory of sobbing ringing in his ears. “It sounded like her.”

When Martin opened his eyes again, Jon was staring at him, his arms wrapped around his small frame. It was a moment before he spoke, and when he did there was a note of pain in his voice that made Martin’s anger flood away in an instant. “That was the NotThem. The creature that had taken Sasha before. It turned out enough of The Stranger had escaped the book for it to...take hold of her again, but only...“

Jon’s voice trailed off and he looked away. “Only at night,” he finished quietly. “That first night, it was a shock to us all. The NotThem nearly gutted Tim in a frantic attempt to escape the estate. But being in The Eye’s domain weakened it. We were able to lock it away, until...until Sasha came back to herself the next morning.”

Martin stared at him, a hollow realization carving its way through his stomach. He thought of the way Sasha always looked so tired, thought of the strange scars on her arms, almost like claw marks. “She goes through that _every night_?” he asked, horrified.

Mutely, Jon nodded. From the way his shoulders slumped and he curled in on himself slightly, Martin thought he looked tired. “She has it the worst of any of us, I think,” Jon said hoarsely. 

Martin swallowed, blinking away tears that threatened when he thought too hard on it. To have your identity ripped from you, night after night. To be used by something evil like nothing but an empty vessel. He wrenched his eyes shut, desperately casting for another topic. “How did you know…?”

Jon seemed to know what he was asking. “I always try to keep an eye on that room. The NotThem is too weak to break out by force, but...I keep an eye out to make sure it doesn’t try anything else.”

“Is that why you never sleep?” Martin asked thoughtlessly.

Jon blinked at him. “Partly,” he finally answered, after long enough of a pause that Martin thought he wasn’t going to. “Why don’t you?”

Martin looked away, unprepared for the question to be thrown back at him. It surprised him enough that he answered honestly. “I have nightmares.” He winced at how childish it sounded.

“Oh,” he heard Jon say. There was a silence in which Martin desperately wished for the floor to swallow him, and Jon just stared at him as if there weren’t dozens more interesting things to look at. “Do you...do you want me to walk you back to your room—”

“No,” Martin said, too quickly. At Jon’s flinch, he added, “I’m not sleeping after that. I think…” he rubbed a hand over his eyes, pressing his thumb and index finger to the corners. “I think I’m going to go make some tea.”

“Oh,” Jon said again, and Martin wondered when he had become so ineloquent, or whether he had always been like that and he just hadn't noticed. 

“Do you want some?” Martin found himself asking. 

Jon blinked at him. “Tea?”

Despite himself, a smile tugged at the corner of Martin’s lips. “Yes, Jon.”

“Oh,” Jon said again. Then, apologetically, “I don’t...I don’t really like tea.”

Martin frowned. “You _don’t?”_

“No, it’s bitter and awful and I don’t know how people stand it.”

“What kinds have you tried?” Martin asked, refusing to let the topic drop.

“The...bagged kind?”

“Black tea?”

“It was more of a brown,” Jon said, sounding dead serious.

Martin stared at him, feeling—despite himself—better, with the growing giddy disbelief blooming in his stomach. “Jon. Tell me how you make tea.”

He could practically hear the frown in Jon’s voice. “What—I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.”

“Humor me,” Martin said, grinning.

Jon was silent for a moment before speaking, his eyes not quite meeting Martin’s, but still looking at him. Then, his eyes snapped back up and he described the most sure fire way to make the most scalded, bitter cup of tea imaginable. (Using four tea bags for one cup??? Was the man insane?)

“Jon,” Martin groaned, his head in his hands, though he couldn’t quite keep the grin from creeping across his face. Honestly, this was the most ridiculous conversation they’d ever had, and Martin adored it. “Please, please, let me make you a cup of tea. I think you’ll like it.”

When there was no reply, Martin looked up to see Jon staring at him, his head tilted slightly. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost...wondering. “Alright.”

Martin suddenly found himself wishing he could have seen Jon’s face, in that moment. It had almost sounded like...

No. No, that would be silly. 

They walked in companionable silence to the kitchen, and though Martin hadn’t been searching for the company, it felt...nice. Warmed away the lingering fog and worry as if it had never been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy so this chapter is a little shorter than usual bc I started school this week! So im kinda swamped rn 😅
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed! More on how their little tea date went next chapter. Also more of Jon catching feelings like a dork. Ugh Jon. I love you you’re so smart but also so dumb. Ie “Martin...are you a ghost?” And the lovely “have you seen a dog?” “What like, in general, or?”


	11. The Compromise

“What are you smiling about?”

Martin startled where he’d been distractedly putting the kettle on, pressing a hand to his fluttering heart and whirling around to face a grinning Sasha. “Christ,” he breathed, shutting his eyes as his heart beat slowly returned to normal. “You scared the _life_ out of me.”

Sasha’s grin widened as she made her way around the island that separated them. “Sorry. I wasn’t _trying_ to, I might add. You were miles away.”

Martin bit his lip nervously, looking her over. She didn’t look any different than she usually did, or he would have noticed something was amiss earlier. Sasha looked sunny as always. Even more so in her bright yellow, oversized jumper that would have made him look like a neon sign but that she pulled off with ease. But that did nothing to quell the urge to ask if she was alright and if she needed anything or if she wanted to talk, with the memory of the NotThem fresh in his mind. 

Should he mention it at all? She hadn’t told him about what she went through nightly. Perhaps she didn’t want him to know. But he couldn’t just pretend he _didn’t,_ that—that would be disingenuous and far closer to lying than he was comfortable with, and—

“Hellooo?” Sasha asked, drawing the word out and passing a hand over Martin’s face. “Earth to Martin?”

Martin blinked, then rolled his eyes, guiding her hand back down. “Yes, yes. I’m here. What did you say?”

“I want to know,” Sasha began brightly, settling back on one of the stools by the island, “what put that dazed little smile on your face.”

Martin felt his face heat before he had the foresight to whirl around and try to hide it. 

Sasha practically gasped. “Ohhh, I must know now—what was it?”

“Nothing!” Martin denied, though his voice going up an octave didn’t help matters. Sasha’s grin widened in utter delight. “Tea?” he tried, and without waiting for an answer, he whirled to face the kettle.

“Boo!” Sasha said. “I mean, yes, of course, please, but also _no!_ No changing the subject, I forbid it.”

Martin did not bother to reply, busying himself with making tea and trying to will the pink off his cheeks. 

Sasha sighed loudly behind him. “Fine. Keep your secrets,” she said. “Maybe I’ll just get Jon to Know it for me.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Martin shot back automatically. He was glad he was still turned around, because that thought did nothing to banish the flush. 

“Ugh, no, he wouldn’t, the stuffy man. Why must you deny me this, Martin,” she groaned, though because she wasn’t nearly as bad as Tim, she let it drop. 

Of course, even though he no longer had to own up to it, he knew _exactly_ what had put that stupid smile on his face. He’d been thinking about the night before. He did feel a little guilty considering where his thoughts had been, given what Sasha had gone through. But it had just been so novel and unexpected and nice that he couldn’t help but reminisce on it. 

It hadn’t even been that _eventful!_ Martin just...couldn’t stop the memory from popping back into his mind, that he’d been in this exact spot the night before, making Jon tea. 

It had just been...nice. A little corner of normality in their very abnormal circumstances. Jon had, of course, had no idea what kind of tea he liked other than “dark and caffeinated,” so Martin had started with a bit of educated guesswork. He’d settled on Assam, steeped for slightly longer than Martin himself would have liked it, but not too long that it was bitter. He’d considered making it plain, but had eventually decided on the slightest bit of sugar, as Jon had watched, quietly curious over his shoulder, providing no useful hints. 

It had been a shame they’d had no milk—Assam was always lovely with a splash of it. But any of Martin’s worries that the tea wouldn’t measure up had flown out the window when Jon tentatively tried it and made a _noise._ Decidedly not a bad one. 

And then he’d just... _looked_ at Martin for almost a minute. And then he’d said “thank you” so very softly, and Martin had flushed and turned away, busying his hands, and mumbled how everyone should have a nice cuppa now and again, and that it was nothing, really. Jon hadn’t even stayed long after that, had returned to The Archive with Martin’s tea cradled in his hands that Martin knew were deceptively soft and he just—

He couldn’t stop thinking about it that morning. 

The tea kettle whistling brought him back to reality for the moment. Martin finished prepping the tea. Irish breakfast for Sasha, no sugar, steeped lightly, and darjeeling tea, mildly sweet, for him. 

He handed over Sasha’s mug and watched as she sipped, looking over the rim at him with slightly narrowed eyes. “You alright?” she asked. “Really, you’re a bit distant today.”

“Oh,” Martin blinked, fiddling with his mug. “I’m fine.”

“Still trouble sleeping?” Sasha pressed. 

Martin sipped at his own tea to give him a moment. “A little,” he answered softly. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he asked, “are you doing okay?”

Sasha looked up at him, brow furrowing. “Yeah, I’m alright. Why?”

Martin opened his mouth to respond, panicked, then closed it. “Just wondering,” he finally managed weakly.

Sasha’s frown deepened as she searched his face, and she must have pieced it together from something she saw, because her expression leveled out and she sighed. “Oh.” 

The way she said it, tired and resigned and unsurprised, shattered something in Martin’s chest. “Sasha—”

“Did Jon tell you?” she asked, leveling him with a steady stare.

“N-No. No, I, um.” He swallowed, glancing at the floor between them. “I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I was wandering, and I found...I found your room,” he finished quietly.

“Oh,” she said hollowly. Martin looked up to see she was staring into her mug, knuckles white. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine that was pleasant.”

Martin gaped at her. “You don’t—you don’t have to _apologize—_ ”

Sasha stood abruptly, not quite looking at him, tea sloshing in her mug. “I, um. I’m sorry, I forgot need to, um.” She turned as if she meant to go. 

Martin darted after, breathless and panicked that he’d said something wrong. “Sasha, I’m—I’m sorry, Sasha. I know...I know you didn’t want me to know. I’m sorry.”

Sasha paused, turning back. Her face was pinched. Martin saw her take a shaky breath and shake her head, once. “You don’t have to be. I should have said. It was dangerous and stupid not to—I should have told you, but I was just...” She cut off, huffing a humorless laugh, eyes watering. Her arms wrapped around herself. “I was just enjoying feeling like a normal person for once.” 

Oh. _Oh._ “I don’t think of you any differently,” Martin hurriedly assured. “You’re still you. You’re still...” his throat bobbed, the word getting stuck in his throat. It’d been so long since he’d used it. “You’re still my friend,” he said softly. “Nothing’s going to change that.” When Sasha just stared at him, mouth working soundlessly, he took a step closer. “Could, um.” He held out his arms. “Could I—?”

He didn’t even have to finish his sentence. Sasha closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tightly. He clutched back, fingers bunching in her knit sweater, her hair tickling his nose. It felt right and warm. It felt like reassurance. It felt like a promise, and he held to it, as tightly as he held her.

* * *

Martin examined the rather sad state of the greenhouse with mild disappointment. He’d been using dried spices in all his cooking, but had hoped he might find something fresher in here. From the looks of it, that might have been an impossibility. He supposed for people that didn’t have to eat, care of a greenhouse wasn’t the first priority. 

It was beautiful there, at least, even if the plants weren’t in great condition. The thick, blue-tinted glass allowed for plenty of sunlight but it didn’t feel scorching, and it had a lovely domed roof. Lots of space, tile flooring around the sections of garden bed. It was a bit dusty, the plants more than a little sad, but. It just needed a little love. It could be back to its former glory in no time. 

Martin crouched in front of a puny looking section of tomato plants, trying to pick through and find any that were salvageable. To his surprise, he found more than he thought he might. “Ah, there you all are. Tenacious, aren’t you? That’s an admirable quality,” he murmured mindlessly as he searched. Might as well pep the tomatoes up, they had so little going for them. “You’ll be growing better in no time, I promise. I’ll help you along.”

“Succumbed to madness already, have you?”

Martin jumped at the sound of Tim’s sudden voice, nearly dropping his tomatoes. “ _Tim_ , Christ.” He settled back on his heels, glaring up at the other man. “Is it sneak up on Martin day? Did I not get the memo?” 

Tim raised his brows, grin wide. “I’m not the first? Damn.”

“No, you are not,” Martin replied distantly, counting the puny tomatoes he’d found. Not a bountiful amount by any means, but it should be enough. 

“What are you planning on making?” Tim asked, looming over his shoulder. 

“Pasta,” Martin answered, giving him a look. “Though I’m now disinclined to share with you.”

“No! Martin, no. Please. I think we have a basil plant around here that’s survived. I can show you. Could that put me back in your good graces?”

Martin huffed a laugh. “That could do it. Could— _ah._ ” A sudden, spasming pain lanced through his injured hand, causing it to twitch involuntarily. “Shit, hold these for me will you?” Martin winced, passing a concerned looking Tim the handful of tomatoes before he could drop them. 

He clutched his bandaged right hand, slowly stretching out his fingers and breathing through the pain. 

“You alright?” Tim asked, uncharacteristically serious. “I could get Basira to take another look at it?”

“No. No, I’m alright,” Martin told him, gingerly pressing at the muscles around the slowly healing wound. “It just hurts sometimes, if I use it too much.”

“Martin,” Tim tsked. “You’ve got an extra set of hands right here. What more do you need?”

Martin flashed him a smile and took a moment to think on it. “That basil would be good. I doubt we’ll find pine nuts here, but if there are some I will gladly take them. Oregano. Oh, rosemary would be nice.” He could make that focaccia bread he’d been thinking about with some rosemary. 

Tim’s smile never wavered as he answered, “I’m not going to lie to you, Martin, I don’t really know how to distinguish between those.”

Martin got to his feet, patting down the dust from his pants. “That’s alright. Shouldn’t take long to work our way around. You mentioned possibly having seen a basil plant?” he asked, glancing at Tim. 

“Yup! I’m slightly less confident that’s what it was now, but might as well give it some company. You can coo at it like the tomato plants.”

Martin huffed, falling in step beside Tim. “In my defense, I’m fairly certain that’s been proven to help plants grow.”

“Doesn’t help you to look any less unhinged, though,” Tim pointed out brightly. 

Martin snorted. “Suppose not. But clearly none of you are doing it.” He was quiet for a moment, casting his eyes over the withering plants around them. “It’s a bit sad, isn’t it?” he said. 

Tim took a moment to respond. “Yeah,” he said, a strange dullness to his voice. “I tried to keep it up, in the beginning, but I’m no good with plants. Couldn’t keep a houseplant alive if I tried. I always liked spending time in here, though. It’s quiet. Warm even in winter.”

Martin listened rapt, imagining what this place might have looked like before everything had gone wrong. “Who took care of the place before?”

Tim was quiet for a long enough moment that Martin believed he hadn’t heard. Then, he said quietly, “Melanie did.”

“Oh,” Martin said. It was hard to reconcile the woman he’d seen in the woods to someone who would thrive in the peaceful quiet here, but it had been true of her once. Thinking of what had happened to her made his heart ache in his chest. “If...if Daisy has enough control to meet with Basira, then why—?”

“We tried,” Tim interjected, firmly, but not cruelly. He sounded uncharacteristically sad. “Melanie...she despised being tied to the estate. She really did. I think...she found comfort here. Far from The Archive. Far from all of us, though I wasn’t really in a state to be around anyone either. I get it, why she felt safe here. I really do. But then The Slaughter called her, and...none of us seemed enough to pull her back, you know?”

“Oh,” Martin said again, the word sticking in his throat. 

“Yeah,” Tim said, tiredly. 

It took a few minutes for any conversation to be picked back up again. Light as Tim could make it, Martin couldn’t quite get what he’d shared out of his head for the rest of the day.

* * *

The next night passed much the same as the last. He managed to get a few hours of sleep, but woke violently in the middle of the night, fog lingering at the corners of his mind. Martin left for the library to chase away the feeling, skimming the shelves until his eyes caught on a book he thought might take his mind off things. Lately a tried and true tactic had been staying up until he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open anymore, then drifting back to his room to slip into a, hopefully, more dreamless sleep. 

It occasionally had the side effect of trapping him in nightmares he struggled to wake up from, but. He was quickly running on empty, and desperate for any sleep that wasn’t fitful. He’d take it whatever way he could get it, even if it wasn’t entirely consistent. 

Martin lingered in front of one of the library’s shelves for a moment, fiddling with the book in his hands. He cast a glance at the plush, comfortable chair he curled up in often when reading, but thought it rather looked very cold and uninviting in the dark. The library itself just seemed too...cavernous. 

Much as he loved it, it wasn’t cluttered and full like The Archive was. It didn’t soothe the ache in his chest. 

So, he made his way to The Archive instead, and avoided putting his finger on why, exactly, it felt more right to do so. When he stopped at the double doors, listening to make sure he wouldn’t interrupt anything, he couldn’t hear the sound of Jon’s voice or the fluttering of papers or the whirring sound of a recorder. 

That was...fine. That was fine, he just...preferred The Archive at night. He opened the doors to confirm The Archive was indeed empty, though the lights on the walls were still producing their warm, low light. 

It was hard to ignore the mild, curling disappointment in Martin’s chest as he wandered in. He drifted to the window, taking in the stars, and settled on the outstretched windowsill. He adored the windows in The Archive. With his head leaning against the glass, it almost looked like he was adrift in the sky. He opened up the book he’d chosen after a few moments of stargazing, settling the book on bent knees and trying to convince himself that he didn’t know why his ache in his chest refused to dissipate. 

Martin was utterly lost in his reading by the time he heard the distinct sound of The Archive doors swinging open. He looked up, blinking, to see Jon completely engrossed in the stack of papers in his hands. Martin watched, amused, as Jon tried several times to close the doors behind him with his foot while his attention never left what he was reading. In fact, it looked as though he was never going to connect with the door, his foot hovering about two inches too far to the right. Jon was so lost in whatever he was reading, that fact didn’t seem to come to his attention.

“It’s more on your left,” Martin called over to him, taking pity.

Jon jumped, nearly losing one of the papers he was holding, wide eyes turning to Martin. Martin stifled a grin. He didn’t think it was often that people got the drop on Jon. “Oh,” Jon said, rather breathlessly. “Hello.”

Martin turned back to his book, still biting down on a smile. “Hello, Jon,” he said.

He tried and failed not to notice out of the corner of his eye when Jon stayed in place for a moment after closing the door, just looking at him. 

It was a little harder to focus on his book after that. He couldn’t help but note the sounds of Jon flipping through stacks on his desk, even if it was across the room. He gave up on trying to get past the same paragraph he’d been caught on for the past few minutes when Jon came over. 

“What are you reading?” Jon asked, tilting his head to try to look at the cover. 

Martin made it easier on him, twisting the book so the cover faced him. He couldn't see the face Jon must have made, but he definitely heard something like an unimpressed “huh.”

“What, not a fan of Brontë?”

“Not really. It’s dry. The romance contrived and implausible, along with the plot—”

“ _Implausible?_ ” Martin asked, frowning.

Jon blinked at him. “Yes.”

Martin stared at him for a moment. “Jon, have you considered that we’re currently residing in a mystical manor hidden away from the rest of the world while the forces of darkness beat at the windows?” He shrugged. “Maybe you should rethink your definition of implausible.”

Jon was silent, but in a rather tense way that suggested he wanted to disagree. “It’s still a miserable book,” he said techily. “Filled with miserable people.”

Martin sighed. He was far too tired to properly argue what merited good fiction. “Well, better to focus on other people’s misery than my own,” he said. 

Martin blinked up at Jon when he didn’t say anything in return. Jon’s shoulders looked stiff, and he had gone very still.

Oh. _Oh._ Martin hadn’t quite meant it like that, not in the way Jon was seeming to take it. There was still the unspoken reality that Martin hadn’t exactly _asked_ to be there, the reality of a padlock on the door, and while Martin hadn’t actually thought on it in a long time, he could guess it was what Jon was thinking of. 

“Why, what would you rather read?” Martin asked lightly, trying to redirect the conversation. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something useful, like _statements_ ,” Jon shot back immediately, the word emphasized intentionally.

Martin bristled. So they were having _that_ conversation again, were they? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought on it. He _had,_ and he didn’t particularly like the insinuation in Jon’s voice that he hadn’t. 

Though...if Martin were honest, he’d been dreading when this would be brought up again because...well, it wasn’t like he could really refuse was it? _Morally_ he couldn’t, if there was a chance the fate of the world depended on it. Of course he would do it. It wasn’t a question. He could read statements, even if it felt like something was pinning him in place and studying him and _listening_. 

But the thought of doing that now, when he’d come here desperate for an escape from the fog and worn down by countless sleepless nights—that thought wasn’t bearable. 

So Martin bristled and shot back, “right. Because we wouldn’t want to read about other people’s misery, would we?”

Jon went stiff and silent again, looking down at him. It was rather fascinating, a distant part of his mind considered, that even though he couldn’t see Jon’s face he could tell which looks were warm or cold by the set of his shoulders. 

This look was decidedly the latter, and since Martin already felt guilt squeezing at his chest, he decided he deserved it. 

“Enjoy your book,” Jon said, clipped. 

He turned away before Martin could reply, settling hunched and tensed at his desk. 

Martin stifled the urge to groan and smack his head against the glass. He glanced over at Jon again to find him seemingly engrossed in a statement again, though the way he sat, practically curled over his desk, looked far from relaxed. 

Martin tried to return his attention to his book, but any hope of that had flown out the window. After a few minutes he sighed, shutting his book and turning his attention to the sky outside the window. 

Guilt weighed heavy in his chest. It made him restless, agitated. He glanced at Jon again, who hadn’t moved. Christ, his posture was truly awful.

Martin sighed. He wanted to apologize, but was afraid of broaching the subject again. He felt tired and worn thin, and the thought of having to explain any of the whirlwind realizations in his chest seemed utterly impossible tonight. Though...

An idea struck him. Martin slipped from his perch on the windowsill, leaving his book. Jon didn’t look up as he passed, but Martin could feel his eyes tracking him across the room. When Martin slipped out of The Archive, Jon didn’t say anything.

A few minutes later, Martin returned. Jon didn’t look up at his approach, which must have been why he startled a little when Martin placed the mug of tea next to his elbow. He luckily didn’t knock it over. Just looked at it, then at Martin. His scrutiny was always rather intense, but in that moment it felt like maybe Jon saw a little bit too much. 

“I hope you like it,” Martin said, managing a small smile. 

Jon blinked at him, silent, when he passed by again to return to the windowsill. Martin picked up his book again, but it was mostly just to keep up appearances. In reality, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Jon slowly picked up the mug. He looked into it, then cast a glance at Martin, during which Martin pretended to be studiously engaged in his book. He watched as Jon tried some, looked into the mug again, and then took another sip, longer this time. Watched as Jon’s wrapped around the mug and pulled it closer to him, as if leeching its warmth. 

It made Martin’s chest feel light. He smiled into his book. It was a few more minutes before he was properly able to focus on it again. 

Time passed in a far more comfortable silence after that. Martin actually made decent headway into the book before his eyelids started drooping in earnest. He stifled a yawn. 

“Martin?” Martin looked up at Jon, who was sat looking at him. He didn’t look anything like as tense as he had before, but his right hand was twiddling with a pen in a way that looked nervous. “I, um. I have to record a statement tonight.”

Martin blinked at him when he said nothing more, brow furrowing. “Okay?”

Jon took a breath and spoke before Martin could ask if he should leave. “It’s just...I’d do it in the backroom, it’s a more suitable recording room, but. The sound still...drifts. I-I wouldn’t want you to—I mean, I wanted to ask if it would...bother you.”

“Oh,” Martin said faintly. He thought on it. Would it be the same as reading one himself? If it was faint enough, he supposed it wouldn’t bother him. And he’d grown up in puny flats, with his mother’s television programs blaring in the other room while he read, so it wasn’t as though he couldn’t drown things out, if he had a mind to. “I...I think it should be alright.”

Jon stared for a moment more, then nodded curtly, gathering up the aforementioned statement and the recorder he planned to use. Before Jon could disappear into the backroom, Martin called his name.

Jon looked back, eyes bright and intent on him, and Martin felt a little breathless. “Thank you,” he said, and Jon seemed to understand what for, because he nodded again, more slowly this time. 

When Jon started up recording the statement, Martin could just barely hear it. He made out some words, but could not hear the whole of it. Jon’s voice lilted, serious, but...warm, like a curl of woodsmoke in the air. For a different reason than Martin had expected, it was difficult to keep his attention on the book. 

It became harder and harder to convince himself to keep his eyes open, and before he could even think of returning to his room, he was drifting off.

He didn’t dream.

When he woke it was to streaming sunlight and an admittedly aching back. The windowsill wasn’t exactly made to be comfortable. Martin blinked his eyes open blearily, awareness flooding in slowly. It took him a moment to realize, but when he did something warm and full bloomed in his chest. Under his head was a plush pillow that certainly hadn’t been there when he’d fallen asleep, along with a wonderfully soft, green wool blanket. 

Martin sat up, his fingers running over the blanket wondrously. The smile that drifted over his face was a completely unbidden thing, as well as that warmth in his chest. In the quiet of the morning he could bask in the feeling, while he pretended he didn’t know what it might mean. 

* * *

Martin stared down at the dough plopped on the flour-powdered table with a frown. It wasn’t the right consistency. Too dry, not quite malleable enough. Had he remembered the recipe right? He’d thought he had. Perhaps he’d added too much flour? Or maybe it was because he couldn’t knead effectively with one hand.

He glared at the dough and then at his practically useless right hand, displeased. Honestly, if he could have yelled at his younger self and shook him to convince him not to run into the woods, he would. A knife wound wasn’t well worth the effort. He nearly ran his left hand through his hair in frustration, before remembering almost too late that it was covered in flour and bits of dough. 

“Martin!” 

Martin startled at the sound of Jon’s voice, turning to face him. It was almost strange to see him. Their paths rarely crossed during the day, if at all. Martin had been beginning to consider him entirely nocturnal. 

Jon paused in front of him, tilting his head. “You’ve um. You’ve got a little.” Jon gestured at Martin’s shirt. 

Martin looked down at himself and scrunched up his nose. He’d pressed his hand to his racing heart when Jon had appeared, and it seemed he’d accidentally gotten flour on his shirt. 

Jon made a sound that actually sounded like a laugh, such a rare sound it took Martin a second to place it. “It’s a good look,” Jon quipped. 

It took Martin another moment entirely to school his expression into the appropriate scowl. He hoped it could mask the way his heart rate picked up, and the pervasive thought that he was sure, _sure,_ Jon was smiling under that hood and Martin couldn’t _see_ it. “Thanks,” he managed, sufficiently dry. 

Martin waited for whatever Jon had sought him out for, but Jon seemed content just to look at him. Was he still smiling? Probably not. Still, Martin thought it was rather unfair that Jon could make whatever face he wanted and be stealthy about it. He thought it was more unfair that he had no idea what Jon’s expression looked like. Martin shifted on his feet. “Is there...something you wanted, Jon?”

“What?” Jon blinked. “Oh. Yes, I just—I had a thought. I have no idea why it didn’t come to me before. I suppose I thought you’d have to experience things as I did, but the more I thought on it, the more I realized that might not have to be the case, so I—well. Here,” Jon said, offering Martin a cassette player. 

Martin reached for it automatically with his good hand, brow furrowed, before remembering that his hand wasn’t exactly clean. 

“Oh! Right, sorry,” Jon said, sounding sheepish. He pulled back the cassette player, fiddling with it. “It doesn’t have to be right now, obviously. I just came to find you as soon as I thought of trying it, but...” Jon paused at what must have been a blatant look of confusion on Martin’s face. “It’s a statement that’s already recorded,” Jon explained. “So it’s been archived, and experienced by The Eye, but since it’s new to _you,_ it should be alright. It’s still experiencing the fears, coming to know the watcher, in a sense. But this way you can stop,” he said, pressing a button on the recorder to demonstrate, “whenever you want. What happened before shouldn’t happen again.” Jon paused again as Martin stared at him, processing, and said, gently, “that is, if you’d want to try it.” 

“Oh,” Martin said. He’d been working up the nerve to read another statement again soon, despite the fear and the discomfort he knew it would bring, but...Jon had been thinking about another way in the meantime. “I...yeah. Yeah, we could try that, I just, um.” Martin blinked, trying to will his heart to beat slower and control the flush that started to spread across his face. “Let me finish with this dough first? It needs to rise afterward anyway.”

Jon nodded, peeking over his shoulder. “What are you making?”

“Pasta,” Martin answered, rolling the dough around with one hand. It wasn’t right, though. Martin scowled at it. 

“What’s the matter?” Jon asked, looking between the dough and him. 

“I think I need another egg,” Martin murmured, considering. “The consistency’s not right. But I don’t want to risk the dough softening too much.”

Jon stared at the dough for a moment, with an intensity that was a little funny. After a pause, he said, “for the 128.3 grams of flour you used, you’d need about six eggs, half preferably just the yolk for optimal consistency.”

Martin gaped at him. “Did you...did you use your spooky eye powers to Know that?”

“I resent the word spooky,” Jon grumbled, glancing away.

Martin snorted, grinning at him. “Who knew eldritch fear gods had the potential to teach a cooking class.” When Jon sputtered indignantly, Martin laughed again. “Thank you,” he said seriously, his smile a softer thing. “I’d only put in about five. You’ve saved the integrity of the dough.”

Jon blinked at him. “You’re welcome,” he said, rather more seriously than a conversation about pasta dough warranted. 

When Martin had added another egg, he began to knead the dough. The process wasn’t impossible with the use of just one hand, but didn’t exactly go quickly. Jon murmured, after a moment, “I could help, if you like?”

Martin considered the offer. It was a little frustrating not to be able to do these things himself, but it would go faster with two hands, after all. And the dough needed time to rise before he could even begin the process of rolling and cutting it. “Sure,” he said, stepping to the side. “Thanks.”

He washed his hands after Jon did, finally getting the sticky dough off his fingers. He’d never seen Jon spend time in the kitchen before, but the way he began to knead the dough—movements at first a little jerky, but soon settling into easy, repetitive motions—told Martin he wasn’t a stranger to it after all. Martin’s eyes were caught by the movement of his hands. He liked Jon’s hands. He had long fingers and, while the backs of his hands had some pockmarked scars, the rest of his skin was smooth. Tendons jumped under the skin as he moved. 

“Do you remember how long...?” Jon asked.

The question took a moment to register. Martin looked up at him, blinking. “Oh, only about 5-10 minutes. Not long at all.”

Jon nodded, turning his attention back to the dough, and Martin took it as his que to draw his attention away too. He drifted to the edge of the counter, where Jon had placed the cassette player. He picked it up, peering at the tape inside. 

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Jon look at him, even as his hands kept kneading. 

There was nothing for it, now. Jon was there, watching carefully, if anything should go wrong. Even when Jon didn’t think anything would, he was still there, watching. And Martin...Martin trusted Jon, he decided. So, he pressed play. 

“‘Statement of Herman Gorgoli regarding his period trapped alone in a suburban area of Cheadle. Original statement written 9th of November, 2014. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins.’”

Martin listened for a few minutes in tense silence, waiting for any sign that that horrible feeling would start up again. But he felt nothing. Experimentally, he reached out to pause the tape. Jon’s recorded voice stopped along with it. Martin breathed a sigh of relief, and looked up at Jon, who was watching him intently, dough forgotten. “Thank you,” Martin told him.

Jon nodded. “I’m glad it worked,” he said earnestly. 

Martin smiled softly. “Me too.”

“Right,” Jon said, after a moment. It sounded almost breathless. 

Martin gestured at the dough, smile growing. “I can take over, if that’s alright?” Jon blinked and looked back at the dough like he was surprised it was still there. “It might help me to have something to do while I listen.”

“Oh,” Jon said, a strange note to his voice. He stepped back from the counter. “Right, that—that makes sense. I’ll, um. I’ll let you do that. Let me know when you’d like a new tape.”

Before Martin could tell him that he hadn’t meant to imply Jon should _leave_ , the man had turned away. He supposed Jon had other things to do. He rarely saw him out during the day, after all. But the rationalization didn’t stop the small pang he felt at seeing Jon leave, which...

Yes, he could use something to drown out the implications of that. Right now. He clicked the play button on the recorder. Martin worked the dough as he listened, then when it was ready to rise, he set it aside and began to clean up the kitchen. 

As the recording went on and the story unfolded, Martin slowed. He listened more intently, his heart racing, stomach sinking as a dreadful realization began to dawn on him. The rag he’d been holding to wipe the counter down fell limply from his hand. 

It wasn’t that he couldn’t move to stop the recording, wasn’t that he was being forced to listen. He could have paused it, but the thought didn’t cross his mind. He listened because, as the recording played on with descriptions of endless, copycat houses by the sea with no other people in sight and the endless, cold, rolling fog, he was struck by how utterly familiar it was. 

He knew this place in the statement. It felt exactly like what he’d dreamed about almost every night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, another week, another chapter! Is that...some Melanie content on the horizon??? Are we finally at the stage of clear, mutual pining? Will anyone EVER make a move????? Stay tuned. Also, points to anyone who can guess the book Martin’s reading and bonus points to anyone who can think of the quote that most relates to the fic ;)))
> 
> Tbh this week kinda kicked my ass, one bad thing happening after another. Writing this chapter was an excellent way to help me feel better though, and even though it ends on a baby cliffhanger, I hope it's able to give you guys some joy too.
> 
> On a more awesome note though, we have fan art for the fic and it looks AMAZING! Check out the top of the first chapter if you wanna see it. Insta handle with other art is in ch 1 notes ;)


	12. Late Night Revelations

As soon as the statement finished, Martin rushed to The Archive. He’d been hoping to catch Jon in there, but when he burst in it was empty. He took a breath, steadying himself. That was alright. Jon would no doubt drop in eventually. 

It was still difficult to shake the feeling that the floor had dropped away from under his feet. Because he’d thought his nightmares were just nightmares, strange as they were. But the statement of Herman Gorgoli was...familiar. The strange, empty place Gorgoli had gone to was familiar. 

The Lonely, Jon had called it, in the supplemental section on the recording. It must have been one of the fears. 

Which begged the question of why it was plaguing his nightmares. 

Martin wandered to Jon’s desk and sat shakily, feeling vaguely ill. He placed the cassette player on the desk, beside the mild clutter that Jon had left behind. Martin stared at it. Surely Jon would know what this meant. He’d been aware of the fears for far longer than Martin had. 

Martin rather felt as though he was flailing around in the dark. It wasn’t pleasant. He hated not knowing. Hated the feeling that things were happening around him and over his head, and he couldn’t do anything about it. A line of sunlight from the window drifted into his eye, and he blinked, shifting away from it. 

Martin tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking about the contents of the statement. Had it just been a coincidence that Jon had chosen that particular tape? Martin shook his head, casting away the thought. Of course it had been. He hadn’t told Jon anything about what his nightmares consisted of. Hadn’t told anyone, really. Though they were strange, he hadn’t thought they’d meant much of anything. 

It was clear, now, that they were important. Meant something, somehow.

The line of light from the window flashed again, right in Martin’s eyes. He scowled, pushing up from the chair and moving to close the curtain. Must have been sunlight streaming through one of the trees. Martin pulled the curtain farther closed, turning back to the desk. 

He froze. The line of light was still there. It looked for all the world like specks of dust glinting with golden sunlight, but now that Martin’s full attention was on it, he could see it wasn’t coming from the window at all. It was coming from the cassette player itself. 

Martin stared for a few moments, trying and failing to make sense of it. The line of it shone from the cassette player into the stacks of archived statements behind. When minutes passed and nothing changed, Martin cautiously drew closer to it. The line of light looked, somehow, both intangible and solid. 

And, if Martin looked closer...it almost seemed as though there was more than one. There was the one, very bright, but also spaces around it that warped and almost shone if he stared hard enough. Like strings vibrating at a frequency he was just on the cusp of being able to pick up.

Martin reached out before he could convince himself otherwise, drawn to that bright line of light in a way he didn’t quite understand. He brushed it with a finger. He passed through it as if it were made of air, but it also rippled at his touch, like the string of an instrument being plucked, and Martin felt...

He felt an echo of something. A feeling, distant, like a memory that wasn’t his. It felt like a grief and loneliness and fear that echoed in the hollows of his chest, filling him as the string moved. It faded as that string of light came to rest again. 

Martin remembered, abruptly, in Helen’s hallways, when he’d been guided out and sparks of gold danced on the backs of his eyelids. He remembered, just a few nights ago, when he’d thought he’d been following someone though the estate, around corners, with their glowing, gold light. 

Martin followed the string in front of him now, his feet moving, dreamlike, underneath him. He traced the string of light through the shelves at the heart of The Archive. 

The trail ended at one of the shelves. Martin reached out, slowly, to the file that the string was leading to. As soon as he touched it, the glowing string faded away, no trace remaining, except the afterimage on the backs of his eyes. 

Martin’s fingers dug into the folder, bafflement and anticipation filling him all at once. When he opened it up, there was a statement, and a tape. 

Martin took it back to the desk and played it, anticipation thrumming in his veins. Jon’s voice filled the air, and a woman’s that Martin didn’t recognize. They were arguing over the quality of the tape. Martin couldn’t help but think how different Jon sounded in this tape, clipped, almost cruel. 

_“My name is Naomi Herne,”_ the woman on the tape said, rushed, impatient. _“And I’m making a statement on the events following the funeral of my fiance. Evan Lukas.”_

Martin listened, rapt, as she described the death of the love of her life, and the rain, and the cold, and the choking, endless fog. The fog and the pull of it. The way it seemed almost a living thing. Exactly as it felt in Martin’s dreams.

Jon’s words in the supplemental were a calm, almost dismissive contrast to Naomi Herne’s shaky retelling. But one detail had Martin perking up in his seat, a detail that seemed to indicate Herne _had_ actually gone to the lonely place that haunted his dreams. Jon, on the tape, described the chunk of headstone Naomi Herne had brought back with her. 

_Forgotten,_ the headstone had read. 

Martin sat in silence as the tape clicked off, taking it in. That word, _forgotten,_ sounded in his head like an echo, like a plea. 

The air around the tape recorder caught his eye again. While he watched, another, golden, glowing thread shivered into existence, extending back into the archived statements. It beckoned him, like those gentle, guiding nudges. 

It led to another Lonely statement. Then another. And another. Like something, somewhere, was desperately trying to tell him something. 

* * *

_He did not know how long he’d been alone. Time didn’t exist, not properly, in this place. He couldn’t conceive of eternity, but this felt as close as one could get. The fog choked him, settling selfishly in his lungs, freezing, like crystallized seawater. It felt dense, weighty._

_He was unused to the ache of it, even though he’d suffered the feeling for years, and years, and years._

_He wasn’t entirely alone in his suffering, though._

_Of course, there wasn’t_ really _anyone there. Not where he was now. But in another place, in the mirror image of this place, without the cloying fog and the aching cold...there, in that place, was someone watching him._

_He could feel the prickle of eyes on him._

_Whose had they been?_

_He couldn’t recall. But every time those eyes turned on him, watching, distant and uncaring, he ached with more than cold. He would have cried if his tears hadn’t frozen, would have screamed if the fog hadn’t stolen his breath._

“...artin?”

_Those eyes bore down on him, watching, reveling in what had been done to him—_

_Done to him. This wasn’t...this had been_ done to _him. He...he hadn’t always been alone. He had known what it was like to be connected to anything and everything else. This place, it wasn’t meant for him. He wasn’t supposed to be there—_

“Martin.”

 _He’d had someone. Someone important, someone he...someone he’d_ loved, _and they, he..._

 _They abandoned him, cast him away like he was_ nothing, _and now they watched and drank their fill as he wasted away to nothing but fog and fury and smoke._

 _The fog billowed thick and angry around him, but it parted just so, just far enough that he could see the two burning eyes in the distance boring down on him, cold and piercing and_ blue—

“Martin!”

Martin jerked awake, nearly falling out of the desk chair. His breath was coming in heaving pants, his eyes stinging with tears, and grief clogging his throat. Whoever had woken him up was saying something beside him, but Martin couldn’t hear anything over the roaring in his ears. Nothing felt more real than the feeling twisting in his chest. The awful surety that he’d been left behind, cast away. Alone, alone, _alone._

The dreams had been terrible before. But they hadn’t been quite so devastating as this one, because Martin realized he didn’t quite fear being alone. He’d always been alone. But _now,_ now that in this inexplicable place, in this inexplicable situation, he’d found people that he cared about, he was afraid of losing that. Afraid that they didn’t feel as he did. Afraid of being left alone, left behind. You didn’t fear being lonely, Martin realized, until you found someone you didn’t think you could live without. 

There was a gentle touch to his shoulder, and a brush of fingers against his cheek. The gentle press of them guided his head to turn. Martin found himself staring into familiar, bright, glowing eyes. They didn’t seem like the ones he’d seen in his dream. These eyes were kind, narrowed slightly in concern. The roaring in Martin’s ears began to die down, as he realized it was becoming easier for him to parse out Jon’s varying expressions just based on the way his head was tilted, or the slightest changes in his eyes. 

Martin thought if he had an eternity to just look, it’d come to him as easily as breathing. With eternity, Martin would be able to pinpoint what every slant of Jon’s shoulders meant, what Jon was feeling in every movement of his hands. 

“Martin?” Jon asked, his voice soft, his eyes darting between Martin’s like he could find the answer if he just looked hard enough. 

The weight of his gaze was nothing like the one in his dream. Martin didn’t feel pinned in place; he felt like he could finally breathe. He wasn’t in that lonely place. He hadn’t been abandoned. He was in the estate, at Jon’s desk. He was fine. 

It was a jarring transition. The sudden awareness of reality was like being doused in cold water. The Archive sprawled out around him, and Jon had crowded up between Martin and his desk, crouched at eye level. Jon’s hand was still on his cheek. It brushed an errant tear that fell, the warmth of Jon’s thumb sparking across his skin. “Sorry,” Martin murmured. Even as he whispered it, it sounded too loud in the silence.

Jon’s eyes narrowed, his eyes drifting to the desk behind, then back at Martin. “What happened?”

Martin followed where Jon had looked to find the tapes, piled haphazardly on the desk. Martin had gotten through more than he’d thought. All those tapes, and their stories of curling, familiar fog. Martin blinked sluggishly, residual sleep clinging to him like a shadow. “Must have drifted off,” he murmured.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I—Martin. Martin, _look_ at me.” Martin slowly turned his attention back to Jon, forcing his gaze away from the tapes. Martin studied Jon’s shoulders, under the fabric of that hood and cape. They seemed tenser than they had been. “There was a reason I gave you _one_ tape to start with, Martin. Why did you go looking for more? Why _those_ tapes?”

“I...It feels like I’m...remembering something,” Martin found himself saying, softly. “Something that never happened.”

Jon blinked at him, confusion palpable. “What?”

Martin glanced down, struggling to understand it himself. “I’ve been having these dreams,” he settled on, tentatively, “that don’t quite feel like mine.”

Jon stared at him for a moment, his gaze searching. His hand dropped from Martin’s cheek and he only had a second to mourn the loss before Jon’s hand was pressing into his. “You’re freezing,” Jon said, his voice low. “How long have you been in here?”

Martin blinked, casting a glance to the window, shocked at finding darkness beyond the curtains. “I don’t know.”

Jon’s grip on Martin’s hand tightened. Martin glanced down at their entwined hands, and Jon, seemingly realizing what he’d done, let go as if burned. Jon stood, his eyes drifting away. “I...would you like tea?” Jon asked abruptly. “I’m going to make you some tea,” Jon decided, before Martin could give a proper answer.

Then, Jon was turning away, and panic flooded Martin’s veins. It was a primal feeling, a desperate urge to reach out for anyone at all so he wouldn’t feel so _alone_ again. 

It was why he lurched forward and grabbed Jon’s hand again to stop him in his tracks, gasping out, “ _wait.”_

Jon stopped, glancing back at him wide-eyed. Martin could feel the flush that immediately spread over his face. What a stupid, childish reaction. He couldn’t spend all of two minutes alone? _Needy,_ said a voice in his head that sounded like his mother. Always so damned needy. 

Jon’s fingers twitched in his as he looked down at Martin, silent. “Sorry,” Martin murmured, starting to pull away. “I—”

Jon tightened his grip before he could do so. “No. No, I could...I could probably still use some supervision. I wouldn’t want to make you a terrible cup of tea.”

“Oh,” Martin said faintly. When Jon just looked at him, expectantly, he stood up. Jon adjusted his grip, but otherwise his hand remained in Martin’s.

Martin couldn’t help but focus on that bit of contact while they walked to the kitchens. Jon’s palm was warm and dry, the press of his fingers against the back of Martin’s hand like anchoring points. It felt grounding, an unexpected comfort with the echoes of despair and grief and anger in his chest, stirred up by the dream. 

Martin sat at the table, quietly contemplative, as Jon bustled around making the tea. There was enough clattering that Martin was mildly concerned, but when he looked over at what Jon was doing, all the right steps seemed to be involved. Perhaps the clattering was because Jon often glanced away from what he was doing and at Martin, as if thinking he might just up and disappear.

It was a ridiculous thought, but somehow still made Martin shiver. Could something in a dream be...real? What if, one night, he went to sleep only for the fog to snatch him away? 

Still, even as he dreamed of it...the fog never seemed like it was there for _him._

Martin was startled from his thoughts when a mug was placed in front of him. 

“There,” Jon said, taking the seat across from him. “Hope it’s alright.”

Martin gave him a small smile, wrapping his palms around the mug. He took a cautious sip. It was a little under steeped, but Jon had gotten the amount of sugar perfect. “It’s lovely, Jon,” Martin told him, looking down into the mug. “Thank you.”

Jon didn’t say anything in reply, but Martin could feel him practically vibrating with questions. “You can ask, you know,” Martin said, glancing up at him. “You can even _ask,_ if you want to.”

Jon blinked owlishly at him. “What?”

“You know,” Martin said. When Jon continued to look at him blankly, he added, “your whole,” he wiggled his fingers, “spooky thing.”

Jon seemed to understand what he was getting at with that, eyes widening. “Wha—I’m _not_ going to do that.”

Martin frowned at him. “I thought that’s how you feed?”

“I’m not going to _feed on you,_ Martin,” Jon practically hissed at him.

Martin blinked at him. “Why not?”

“Because!”

“Would it help you?” Martin pressed, trying to meet Jon’s eyes where they were boring holes into the wall next to them. “To get a live statement, would it help?”

“Written statements are enough,” Jon said, still not quite looking at him.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon snapped, shoulders tight, eyes narrowed at him. “I’m not doing that to you.”

“Why do you keep saying it like that?” Martin asked softly, genuinely curious. “I’m _offering._ ”

“Well, you don’t _know_ what you’re offering. Giving a live statement tends to make nightmares _worse._ ”

“Oh,” Martin said. “Like...nightmares about the, um...statement itself?”

“Yes,” Jon replied tersely. “While I am forced to watch.”

“Oh. God. That’s _awful_.” Martin reeled at the information. No wonder Jon seemed so nocturnal. Martin wouldn’t want to sleep much either, if that was what awaited him. There was a moment of tense silence, in which Jon sat rigid, not quite looking at him. Martin wondered what was running through his head, wishing he could see his expression. 

Martin took a sip of his tea, pensively. He glanced up at Jon, tilting his head. “So if I just... _tell_ you about it...?”

Jon blinked at him, and when he spoke there was a strange tone to his voice, “that...would be fine. So long as there aren’t any cassette recorders around. Which,” Jon tilted his head and the light of his eyes flared brighter, which Martin had taken to be a sign of aforementioned spooky Eye powers, “there aren’t. They haven’t been able to move of their own accord for the better part of a year now.”

“Um, sorry, _what?_ Move of their—no, you know what,” he decided, when Jon took a breath to answer, “I don’t really want to know.”

“Suit yourself,” Jon answered, amusement in his voice. Though, he sobered when he asked, “so. Why did you go looking for those statements? How did you find them?” His eyes narrowed. “Was it _Helen?”_

“What? No,” Martin assured. Thinking about it though, the mention of her reminded him just how quiet Helen had been lately. “I actually...haven’t heard anything from her. Is that...should I be concerned?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jon said, after a considerable pause. “Considering how many statements you’ve listened to, you’ve probably allied yourself enough to The Eye. She won’t do anything to you, since she’s trapped here at The Eye’s mercy.”

“I suppose that’s...comforting enough,” Martin said. Strange, to be thankful to an eldritch fear god.

“So,” Jon said, again, “what happened?”

Martin took a breath. “I’ve been dreaming of the Lonely.”

“Yes, well, after _all_ those statements, it’d be a wonder if you weren’t—honestly, Martin, even I can only get through about _seven—_ ”

“No, I—not just today,” Martin clarified, slowly, so the words would really sink in. “I’ve been dreaming about that lonely fog for _weeks._ ” Jon stared at him, silent for long enough that Martin felt nervous in spite of himself. “Jon—”

“You’re sure?” Jon asked, eyes boring into him with a frightening intensity. “You’re sure it wasn’t just...a coincidence? That it was _The_ Lonely you were dreaming about?”

“Yes,” Martin told him, completely sure. “I...well, I listened to enough statements to figure that out.”

“How did you find them?” Jon asked, pointedly. “The Archives are organized by date, not by statement type.”

Martin opened his mouth to answer, closed it, then did so again. He didn’t entirely understand this part of the story himself. “Do you remember when I went through Helen’s door? In The Archive?” 

Jon nodded, his attention never wavering, eyes bright and rapt. “Well,” Martin continued, “when I was looking for a way out, I—“ Golden light flashed at the corner of his vision, from just behind him. Martin cut off, whirling around in his chair to look. Just behind, he could barely see the air shifting as if in the shape of something, like those threads in The Archive fighting to be seen. Martin traced the shifting air back, seeing a barely visible thread that traced back to him. He brushed a finger against it. 

Martin gasped at the flash of light as the thread, for a moment, revealed itself, trailing away from him and to a figure that stood behind them in the kitchen, what looked like a person’s golden silhouette. With it, came the warning that rang in his head with the vibrations of the thread. 

_Do not speak of it. Do not trust The Eye._

The sound, and the figure that had flashed with golden light, was gone in an instant. 

“Martin?” Jon was asking, at Martin’s back, confusion palpable in his voice. “Are you alright?”

Martin couldn’t draw his eyes away from the spot where the figure had disappeared. “Is there someone else in the estate?” he breathed.

“ _What?_ No, there—there isn’t, what are you talking about?”

Martin turned, gaping at him. “Are you telling me you didn’t see that?”

“See _what?_ ” Jon asked, without a hint of understanding. Martin must have gone as pale as he felt, because Jon leaned closer, eyes searching his face. “Martin. Tell me what happened.”

Martin wanted to. Desperately, he wanted to know what was going on, wanted help in making sense of what he was seeing. But that warning rang in his head like a gong. 

That feeling that had flashed through him, when he’d touched the thread that led to the golden silhouette in the kitchen—it was familiar. It was that nudge that had guided him from Helen’s hallways. The one that he’d followed to Sasha’s room. The one that had felt so confusingly gentle and kind, that now had thrummed with concern and an almost verbal, desperate warning.

_Do not speak of it. Do not trust The Eye._

Martin supposed he didn’t trust The Eye. He didn’t really see how much better it was than The Stranger, with what it had done to Jon. But The Eye wasn’t the one buzzing with palpable worry and wide eyes sitting across from him. Jon waited for him to respond, knuckles white where his hands were braced on the table. 

Martin trusted Jon. Perhaps it was a fault of his, trusting too quickly and too deeply. Jon had hard edges. He didn’t put on a facade and try to hide it. He was an avatar, and not long ago he would have though that indicative of something inherently untrustworthy. But when Jon spoke, it was nothing like the oil-slick lies of The Stranger, or the clinging grasp of lonely fog. Jon was honest, and real, and so startling kind at the most unexpected times that it flipped Martin’s stomach and sent warmth blooming in his chest.

He trusted him. So Martin told him. He told him what had happened in Helen’s hallways, and what he’d felt leading up to Sasha’s room, and the golden threads he’d been seeing. 

Jon was quiet for a long time after Martin had finished speaking. The dregs of his tea had gone cold, but Martin still sipped at it, in want for something to do. “Do you know what it is?” Martin asked, when Jon still seemed lost in thought. Jon blinked up at him, drawing his gaze up from the table. “Why I’ve been...seeing things?”

Jon was very still where he sat, to the point where it made Martin nervous. After a tense pause, Jon took a visible breath, his shoulders lifting up and down. “It sounds like The Web.”

Martin swallowed dryly. “Oh.”

“It’s not...it’s not entirely surprising, I suppose. Of the four statements we have regarding those who’ve used the Web’s book, two have been confirmed as Web-aligned. So...this might even bode well.” 

The optimism sounded weak, to Martin’s ears. “Jon, what...” his voice shook a little bit, and he hated it. “What does the Web want?”

Jon sighed. “That,” he said tiredly, “is the question at the heart of all this, I suppose. Annabelle Cane wasn’t lying when she said the world would end, had we chosen that other path. But she neglected to mention how damn close the end of the world would be on _this_ one. And...at this point, I’m not certain The Web ever wanted to help us at all.”

“Why?”

Jon settled Martin with a level look. “Because in our forced isolation here, we stumbled across statements that indicated rituals might do absolutely nothing at all.”

Martin’s brow furrowed in utter confusion. “But I thought—you said rituals like the Unknowing were meant to bring a specific fear out into the world?”

“That was what we thought at the time,” Jon conceded. “I suppose it’s still possible that’s the case. There’s no real way to prove it, where we are now. But some of these statements indicated that a ritual might simply collapse under its own weight. However, if a fear were to be brought into the world slowly, bit by bit. Night after night,” he emphasized pointedly. “ _That_ might work.”

Martin stared at him, horrified. “You think The Web wants The Stranger to fully enter the world?” 

“I have no idea,” Jon admitted, exhaustion in his voice. “The Web deals in future possibilities and connections that I couldn’t hope to see, not even when I was at my best. I can’t see the scope of it. It’s just what I’m afraid of.”

Martin took a shaky breath, looking down into his mug and the residue of the tea at the bottom. “What does it want with _me?_ Why did it guide me to those particular statements?”

When Jon answered, his voice was tense with frustration. “I don’t know. Maybe The Web actually favors The Eye and not The Stranger. Or, maybe The Web brought you to those statements because it knew they would affect you the most. You’re most susceptible to fears when you’re vulnerable. The Web isn’t above being cruel, and it isn’t known for its helpfulness. And...then, there's the fact of the tape I gave you,” Jon said slowly, as Martin tensed in anticipation of what he might say. "The tape of Herman Gorgoli's statement, it...it wasn't the tape I was initially going to give you. I had another at the top of the pile, a Dark statement. But that day I went to go bring it to you, I couldn't find it. The Gorgoli statement was the next one on the pile, so I took that one instead. I didn't think of it at the time. It was just another statement, but...given what you've told me, I don't think it was a coincidence that the Dark statement went missing."

“Right,” Martin said shakily, after a moment. The Web, for some reason, wanted him to know about the Lonely. He hadn’t thought the threads or those nudges he felt had seemed particularly malicious. The former had just felt like...memory, like an echo, and the latter had felt...almost kind. But he supposed it wouldn’t be very smart for the fear of manipulation to wear its intent on its sleeve. 

“You’re sure you’ve told me everything?” Jon asked. Martin nodded, and Jon, searching his face, seemed to believe him, his shoulders relaxing a little. “If anything...new happens,” he said, “anything at all. Please, tell me.”

Martin nodded, feeling a little flustered at the note in Jon’s voice that couldn’t be anything but concern. “Okay.” In the silence that followed, Martin felt the fatigue he’d been keeping at bay sweep up to meet him again. “Do you think I’ll dream about it again?” he murmured. 

Jon’s eyes settled on him again, narrowed slightly. “I think,” he said slowly, “you should take a break from statements for a few days. And shy away from Lonely statements. And, well...” Something in Jon’s voice, almost a sheepishness, had Martin looking carefully at him for any sign of what might have caused it. “I think I might have a solution for the nightmares,” Jon finally said, glancing sideways at him.

About fifteen minutes later, Martin was left staring at the product of Jon’s work. It was a cot, set up by the window that Martin favored in The Archive, with the wool blanket and pillow that Jon had given him the night before. 

“I thought it might help to be in the room with someone else,” Jon was saying, almost nervously, behind him. “Given that, well, you didn’t seem to have trouble falling asleep in here the night before. And it would make sense, given, well, the _Lonely._ I’m here most nights, and when I’m not, Tim doesn’t mind staying up until the late hours of the morning, and I’m sure when he knows why he’ll be even more willing to—” 

Martin cut off Jon’s babbling by crossing the distance between them, and wrapping his arms around him. Jon went stiff in his arms, and Martin almost pulled away, but then Jon’s hands lighted tentatively over Martin’s back. Jon was warm and a little too bony for the hug to be completely comfortable, but Martin couldn’t focus on anything but that gratitude that swelled in his chest and the tide of affection that came with it. 

He cared for Jon. He really, truly did, and the depth to which he felt it was almost frightening. In the moment, though, he felt like he was soaring. He had an absurd urge to bury his face into Jon’s neck. He refrained, but couldn’t help breathing in the smell of him, clean linen, and paper, and a bit of that tea he’d made earlier, potent enough that Martin was almost certain he’d spilled some on himself. 

The weight of those realizations felt too big for his chest, but he couldn’t let them go, not yet. So, instead, he breathed, “thank you. Thank you, Jon,” into the scant space between them.

Jon didn’t audibly respond, but his arms around Martin shifted, ever so slightly pressing closer. Jon’s palms were warm weights just between his shoulder blades, his breaths steady and slow and ghosting over Martin’s ear. 

Martin’s heart swelled with it. This was enough. More than enough, for now. In that moment, there was nothing of the fog or Martin’s own fears. There was just the twin thumping of their heartbeats, the comfort of The Archive, and the warm contentment growing too big for his chest to contain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Communication??? In MY archives????? 
> 
> Can you believe??
> 
> Lol, lots of talking and hints and foreshadowing in this chapter. Seems like there's stuff with the lonely and the web and the eye all at once, I. wonder if it's all.....connected 
> 
> *whispers* i swear, this will all make sense and come together. But for noooow, thoughts, theories?? Love to hear em


	13. Memory in a Phonograph

It was an easy thing to fall into a sort of routine after that. He spent his days making up concoctions in the kitchen, reading in the library often accompanied by Basira, and he and Tim made some headway on the greenhouse. He spent his nights in The Archive from that point forward, and so long as there was the rustle of pages, the whirring of a recorder, or another person’s footsteps, the dreams didn’t follow. 

That first night in the cot— which was more comfortable than Martin would have thought—he slept soundlessly and undisturbed until at least noon. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he’d been, really, until that moment he’d woken up blearily, comfortably warm from the streaming sunlight. It was so decidedly better than waking up with his heart pounding in his chest and dread thick in his throat. 

Jon was there, most nights. It was a little strange to fall asleep in the company of people who weren’t sleeping themselves. It was easier when he could hear a droning voice from the backroom recording a statement—usually Jon, but occasionally Tim. It was more difficult when Jon was at his desk, just in view, occasionally casting glances over that had Martin’s stomach fluttering. Still, he much preferred it to the alternative of being alone, as distracting as it could be. 

He hadn’t given much thought to the fluttering feelings that Jon gave him nowadays. It was easier not to think of it. They had enough on their plates, after all. Martin was occupied enough with thoughts of The Stranger outside and the book in there with them, the rhyme on the open page running circles through his head. 

Still, it was harder to ignore those feelings during the small, quiet moments. Like when he’d bring Jon tea, and Jon would look at him and softly thank him, and Martin would abruptly wish, fiercely, that he could catch a glimpse of that smile he knew was hidden away under that hood. Or when Jon would wander into the library looking for some ominous tome and he’d be caught by whatever Martin was reading that day, making some comment that would either elicit a pleased response or a heated debate. (One afternoon, Martin had learned that Jon absolutely despised poetry, and for the rest of the week Martin made a point of keeping a copy of Keats or Elliot or Whitman so he might flash the cover at Jon whenever their paths crossed and note his reaction with petty amusement). It was especially difficult in those moments in the evening, when it was just him and Jon and the peaceful quiet of The Archive. When Jon would cast those glances when he thought Martin wasn’t looking, and Martin desperately wished he could take a peek at Jon’s expression. 

Martin stayed away from any statements—recorded or otherwise—for the first few days, like Jon had suggested. With that time, and the absences of nightmares between, the fog in his dreams was as distant as ever. He felt lighter than he had in a while, more content than he had perhaps been in a very long time. 

After those few days had passed, he cautiously began listening to statements again. He strayed from anymore Lonely statements, focusing instead on the other fears. Martin was sure to listen when there was at least one other person around, at first, though he decided after some time had passed that that precaution wasn’t really necessary. The other fears didn’t follow him into his dreams like the Lonely did. 

He didn’t stop seeing those glowing threads, though. He didn’t see them in The Archive, as before, but rather he would catch glimpses of them when he was with the others. 

He would see one shiver in the air between Jon and Sasha, the light of it steady, and strong for the moment he could see it. When he and Sasha were chatting in the kitchen, he could almost see it between their chests, pulsing and warm, and when Tim waltzed in, grinning at Sasha, another spun into existence between them, so bright it was almost blinding. Passing by the window in the library and catching sight of Basira and Daisy at the gate, he saw it again, that glowing, golden thread that seemed to tie them together at the ribs, so bright he could see it in the light of midday. 

Perhaps, then, it wouldn’t have been so hard for Martin to ignore the fluttering warmth in his chest, in those quiet moments with Jon, if he didn’t also see a thread between them. It appeared unfailingly, in those moments when he gave Jon tea, or when they spoke in the library, or those quiet, fragile moments where Jon would bid him goodnight in The Archive. It never remained long enough for Martin to do more than stare at it, wondrous and curious and hopeful all at once. It flashed bright enough at the level of their hearts that Martin could compare it to what he saw between Tim and Sasha, or Daisy and Basira. And _that,_ certainly, did nothing to quell what he was starting to feel, even when Jon wasn’t in the room. 

But Martin didn’t want to dwell on it, didn’t want to complicate things when he’d just found the spaces in the estate where he could fit. Still, as his routine continued, and the weeks passed, and the weather outside grew less gloomy and looked more like the beginnings of spring...something nagged at him. 

He supposed, when the weather was cold and unforgiving, it was easy to find a warm, comfortable place for himself in the estate. But as the sun peeked out more often through the clouds and the trees began to look less bare, it was a reminder that life outside the estate went on. 

And it was becoming difficult to ignore the padlock on the door, as he made his way down the great staircase on his way to the kitchens. 

No one had mentioned it—that ominous lock that remained on the doors—and Martin was loath to bring it up and disturb the, perhaps fragile, peace. He would have liked to believe it had just been forgotten about, but he knew Basira left the estate to visit Daisy almost daily, and so far as he could tell, there was only one true way in or out. Even the greenhouse was connected to the estate, and while it provided glimpses of sunlight, it did nothing to soothe the feeling he got, occasionally, of the walls pressing in on him.

The feeling of being cooped up grew and grew with each day, as the snow melted outside and the birds chittered in the trees. Martin would watch them in the trees from his own spot on the windowsill, leaning his head against the glass. He did so that day, the book he’d been reading set down marking his page, a blanket draped round his shoulders.

His attention was drawn away by the sound of The Archive doors opening, he turned his head just in time to see Sasha poke her head in. Catching sight of him, she smiled and entered the room. “Hi, Martin. Good day?”

“Decent enough,” Martin answered, smiling back. He cast gloomier thoughts aside for the moment. “You looking for a statement?”

“Looking for Jon, actually,” she replied, raising her brows at him. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

Martin shook his head. “Haven’t seen him all day.” He tried very hard to sound unaffected, and thought he managed it. 

“Good,” Sasha said, surprising him. “I was worried he’d skulked back in here.”

Martin’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been working far too hard. Forgets he does actually need to sleep, sometimes. Basira caught him recording last night, after Jon’d told me he was going to take the night off.”

Martin blinked. “He wasn’t here last night either.” 

“He’d sequestered himself in the library to get through more statements,” she said, exasperatedly.

Martin frowned, feeling concerned despite himself. “Why?”

Sasha paused for a moment, as if considering her words. “He hasn’t really said anything. To any of us. But it seems like he’s been needing more and more. Statements, I mean.”

“Because of The Stranger?” Martin asked worriedly.

Sasha tilted her head, conceding. “Maybe,” she said softly. 

“What happens if he doesn’t record enough?” 

Sasha sighed. “He gets hungry. We all do, all...feel it. It’s not like a normal hunger, it...aches. Carves into you, until it’s all you can think about. Recording statements makes it better, but...here’s the thing—he never complains, the stubborn fool—but it’s exhausting. Draining. I try to supplement sometimes, but he always wants to be the one to do it.”

Martin swallowed dryly. He couldn’t help but think on just how often Jon seemed to be in The Archive most nights, now that he knew why it must have been. And then, when Martin saw him during the day as well...did Jon _ever_ sleep? Perhaps that was why he was often so curiously absent when the sun rose. Sleeping the day away, because he stayed up to keep an eye on the NotThem. And on Martin. Worry muddled with guilt swirled in his stomach.

“Anyway,” Sasha said, shrugging, drawing Martin’s attention. “We do what we can. So far if I record statements it seems to work the same. Keeps Jon or any one of us feeling too off. I’ll be recording in the back, if you need me,” she said, giving him a tired smile. 

Martin watched her go, then leaned back against the window, his thoughts drifting to Jon despite himself. He hadn’t known what Jon had been like before he’d come to the estate. He supposed Jon’s isolation here must have taken a toll, given that Jon was the most closely aligned with the Eye out of any of them. He remembered what Jon had said, weeks ago, that night the Lonely felt so potent he could drown in it. _Written statements are enough._

Were they though? If Jon’s need for statements had increased, as Sasha suggested, did that mean...he was getting worse, and the Stranger’s influence getting stronger? How much time did that leave them to turn the world back? 

The thought that they might be running out of time was frightening. Martin had just started listening to statements, and he didn’t feel any closer to the Eye than he had been. It certainly didn’t bode well, if that was what was meant by “ _Watcher must be seen._ ” Though...he supposed he did feel closer to Jon. But what if that wasn’t what the verse in the book meant either? What if there was some answer they hadn’t considered, and they were working their way in circles? The uncertainty left him feeling jittery and anxious. In hopes of a distraction, he reached for his book, trying to immerse himself in the pages. 

Something flashed at the corner of his vision.

Martin glanced at it out of the corner of his eye, thinking the movement might have been Sasha returning, but it was another one of those golden threads. Martin frowned at it, narrowing his eyes. “Absolutely not,” he said to himself, turning back to his book.

The thread remained, glittering, in his periphery. He ignored it, keeping his attention so firmly on the page before him that the words almost blurred in his vision. Just at the edges of his perception, he could hear it humming, a low frequency, like a mournful song just barely audible. Martin cast another glance at it, quickly, like looking at it would burn him. The thread remained, glowing insistent, shivering, like it was waiting for him. 

Martin breathed out a sigh, shutting his book and tapping it with his fingers anxiously, casting a glance to where the back room lay. If he listened hard, he could hear the distant roll of Sasha’s voice, but it wasn’t quite as prominent as that curious humming from the string. 

It was more than curiosity that thrummed in time when his heartbeat, when he looked at the golden light. It was a strange feeling, almost...a certainty. A feeling that this, whatever it led to, was so utterly and completely meant for him that it could have had his name on it. 

It didn’t even feel like a question of trust. If you’d asked Martin, in that moment, if he _trusted_ the Web, he would have said no. But it wasn’t that, wasn’t a question of _if._ The golden thread...the path it traced out, it simply...was. It was, it had been, it would be. There was a timelinessness to it, an ancient ache that Martin felt in his chest when he cast his eyes over it. 

So while he knew this was likely the Web and he was wary of what the Web wanted with him, the urge to investigate was still...frighteningly strong. Would this path lead him to something terrible? More of the Lonely? 

Even though the Web might have wanted to lead him somewhere, he still had free will. Didn’t he? That thought was utterly terrifying, but he managed to calm the jolt of panic it incited. He _must_ have had free will. The Web—or whatever he’d seen in the kitchen—hadn’t wanted him to share his experiences with Jon, and he did anyway. Which meant that...if he were to just take a look at where this insistent string led...it would be just that. Taking a look. Martin could always call for Sasha if anything happened. 

The string's hum was low and constant, but Martin almost imagined when he approached it, slowly, that the humming rose slightly in pitch. Upon closer investigation, Martin could see, while one end of the thread extended into The Archive, the other seemed to be leading out of it, through the double doors. That was curious. Tentatively, Martin extended a hand and brushed the string with the lightest touch. His chest flooded with muted, half-forgotten feelings, a mess of so many of them it was hard to pick them apart. Fondness, curiosity, love, worry, love, fear, fear, love, confusion, _fear, love, love love—_

Their intensity wasn’t strong, but the sheer volume Martin felt had him pulling back, breath caught in his throat as the echoes of feeling faded. 

It was so different from the cold stagnance of the Lonely, so very intriguing, and strangely, the slightest bit familiar.

He followed the line of it through The Archive, expecting it to end among the shelves as the threads had before. This time, however, the thread slanted downwards as he followed it, and, at the base of one of The Archive’s shelves, Martin saw it plunged straight through the floorboards. Martin looked down at it confusedly. Was this some sort of mistake? Did the Web even make mistakes?

Martin crouched down, brushing his hand against the floorboard. Experimentally, he put some weight on it. The board creaked in response. When he knocked on it, he heard a hollow echo. Martin stared down at it, incredulously. Surely not. 

There was the smallest of cracks at the edge of the floorboard and he wedged his fingers into it, trying to get a grip. It took him a few minutes, but eventually he managed to shimmy the board enough to be able to pull upwards on it. 

Inside was a hollowed out space, with large, wax cylinders inside. The golden light, still present despite his discovery, illuminated them some. The cylinders were covered in a thick coat of dust, forgotten by time. Martin reached inside, pulling out the cylinder closest to him and studying it. He brushed the dust from the sides with his hands, trailing over the nearly microscopic grooves on its sides with wonder. 

These had to be nearly a hundred years old, if not more. The dust spoke volumes, as well as the slight warping of the wax. And yet, despite their apparent age, they seemed to have been kept mostly intact, hidden away as they were. 

Abruptly, Martin remembered the old phonograph in the library.

Sure enough, when Martin raced to the library, one of the wax cylinders in hand, the golden thread blazed the same trail, humming louder as he drew closer and closer. 

Basira looked up at him from her spot on one of the armchairs when he burst into the room, eyebrow raised. “Martin?” she greeted, confusedly, when he blew past her to the phonograph by the window. 

“What? Oh, yes, hi, Basira. I—exactly how old is this thing?” he asked, fiddling with a crank that seemed to do...something. 

Martin saw Basira set her book aside and slowly rise from her chair out of the corner of his eye, but couldn’t, for the life of him, draw his eyes away from the wax cylinder in his hands, and the matching cylindrical compartment on the phonograph. If he could just get it open some how...

“Dunno,” Basira said slowly, head tilted as she stared at him. “Was here before I got here. Suspect it’s more decorational than anything else at this point.”

Martin looked up at her forlornly, pausing where he’d been trying to jimmy the compartment open. He cast a dejected look down at it. “Do you think so?”

“Christ—let me see,” Basira ordered, coming closer and urging him to step aside. He complied, watching her fingers anxiously as they skirted over the contraption. Basira glanced at the cylinder in his hands. “What’s that, then?” she asked, as she studied the machine.

“I found it in The Archive,” Martin told her, rotating it in his hands. Just looking at it stirred up a feeling of interest in his stomach, like butterflies. “I think...I think it might be a recording.”

She glanced at him again, a curious glint in her eye. “Any particular reason you’re so eager to hear it?”

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it, searching for a response. “Just a feeling, I guess,” he settled on. “I feel like it’s important.” 

Basira raised an eyebrow, sending him a sideways glance. “Like a normal old feeling? Or like a spooky _feeling?”_

Martin swallowed dryly. “Maybe a bit of the latter,” he admitted.

Basira’s mouth flattened into a frown. “Martin—”

“You’re welcome to listen, too,” he said, hoping that would be placating enough. “Basira, I _have_ to know what’s on this recording.”

Basira stared at him for a long time, her brown eyes assessing. Finally, she sighed, turning her attention back to the phonograph. “I better not regret this, Martin,” she said warningly.

Martin nodded rapidly in response, watching her work at the machine with rising anticipation. Finally, with the twist of a knob, the compartment snapped open with a click that seemed to echo along the walls. 

The golden light disappeared with it, dissipating into fine particles that suffused into the air. 

“You ready?” Basira asked.

Martin blinked at her, looking away from where the golden thread had disappeared. He glanced down at the wax cylinder in his hands, feeling like he was teetering on the brink of something, and he wasn’t sure which way he wanted to fall. “Yes,” he murmured, after a moment. 

He reached forward, placing the cylinder in the phonograph’s compartment, and Basira clicked it shut again. As she slowly turned the crank on the side, a staticky, white noise filled the air, crackling with age and the warped wax. After a few moments of silence, a crackling voice filtered through the phonograph. 

_“This is a test of Jonah Magnus, regarding the efficacy of the recently invented analog recording. If this medium results in an adequate capture of the following, then I suppose it will do well enough for my purposes. If not, well...”_ The recording went very silent for a moment, save for the crackling of the wax itself in the background, but then Martin swore he heard a muttered, _“to the trash heap with you.”_

There was a distant sound from the recording, almost like a fluttering of pages, and then the man’s voice, mild but with a curling surety, recited, _“‘Before, they had been beasts, their instincts fitly adapted to their surroundings, and happy as living things may be. Now they stumbled in the shackles of humanity, lived in a fear that never died, fretted by a law they could not understand; their mock-human existence, begun in an agony, was one long internal struggle, one long dread of Moreau—‘”_

A creaking sound came abruptly from the recording, and the voice cut off, though a sigh filtered through, close enough to the recorder that it must have come from Magnus.

Another voice sounded, male, lighter, and altogether less dreary. _“So this is where you slunk off to, is it?”_

Magnus’ voice sounded flat and unamused in response. _“Did Bernard let you in?”_

_“Of course he did, Jonah, he likes me far better than you.”_

Magnus sighed again, accompanied by the sound of pages fluttering. _“I really must get around to firing him.”_

 _“You won’t, he’s far too discrete,”_ the second voice said easily, drawing closer. There was a sound like fabric rustling. Then, a laugh, light and airy. _“Why are you reading this drivel?”_

Another, explosive sigh. _“I needed something to record—it was close at hand.”_

 _“What do you mean_ record _?”_ There was a pause, then the voice sounded again, decibels louder, as if they had put their head right up against the recording. _“Hello in there?”_

 _“Do you mind?”_ Magnus’ voice came again, after a measured pause. 

The second voice sounded utterly unbothered by Magnus’ gloom. _“You must tell me how much this cost.”_

 _“Certainly more than it’s really worth,”_ Magnus grumbled.

_“Shame. Though, it does add to the pretentious aura of the library.”_

There was another brief silence. Then, Magnus’ voice filtered through. _“It_ is _rather ghastly, isn’t it.”_

 _“A bit.”_ There was a silence, broken by the distant sound of rustling fabric and a broken huff of breath. _“So,”_ the second voice came again, with an audible grin, _“were you planning on working your way through that whole book, or will you let yourself be stolen away?”_

The resulting silence was broken by an intake of breath and then a click, and afterward nothing followed but the crackling nothingness of the needle making its way along empty recording. 

* * *

Martin trailed down the hall slowly, the contents of the recording on his mind. The conversation he’d heard...it felt private. Intimate. Perhaps the recordings had been hidden away because they truly weren’t meant to be shared. Though the two voices on the recording must have been long dead—had to have been, if that had really been the Jonah Magnus—it felt...wrong somehow, to listen to them without permission. 

Though, the Web had wanted him to. Why? What did the Web care for these long gone remnants of history? He didn’t know. And he didn’t quite like the way the recording had made him feel, leaving him shaky and his heart aching in a way he didn’t understand. Basira hadn’t seemed at all so affected. Intrigued, certainly, but convinced it was just another of the estate’s “little secrets.”

Martin drifted to the kitchen for a cuppa, just to return to something that felt normal, everyday. In crossing the foyer, however, he couldn’t help but glance at the entryway, and its padlocked doors. 

He tried to cast the image from his mind as he put the kettle on, and pulled out a strainer. But he couldn’t shake it. It would have been such an easy thing to ask Sasha about it, or Basira, who remained in the library. Or Jon, when he wasn’t sleeping away the effects of the Stranger. 

But he was afraid of what the response might be. Though he’d settled the question in his own mind, he knew he walked a fine line between guest and prisoner in the others’ minds, and he didn’t particularly want to force it to land either which way. 

Still, that padlock refused to leave his head. Martin scowled down at the kettle, removing it from the heart just before it could whistle at him. Sighing, he pulled open the cutlery drawer to look for a spoon, when his eyes caught on a glint in the corner. Martin blinked, slowly reaching into the drawer, and pulling out a knife that had caught his eye. It was an incredibly small blade, probably meant to remove fish bones before cooking. 

But it also would be perfect for jimmying a lock. 

The idea, once it came to him, was hard to shake. Surely it was better to ask forgiveness than to beg permission. Everyone knew that. And it wasn’t as if he intended to actually go anywhere—his hand still ached when he thought about what had happened last time. 

He just...wanted to feel the sun on his face again. Wanted to feel the breeze and see the trees rustle with it up close. He wanted to know that he could feel that again, without having to _ask_ for it. 

Martin made his way to the double doors, boning knife in hand. Fiddling with the lock confirmed the knife might be able to slot into it, though not all the way. He’d never had cause to force open a lock before. Surely it couldn’t be that hard? 

Approximately fifteen minutes of work later told him, yes, perhaps it could be that hard. He was seconds away from swearing at the lock and calling it quits. The knife made an awful little scraping sound as he jiggled it around in the slot one last hopeless time. 

“If you’re in need of passage,” a familiar voice sounded at his left, “all you had to do was ask.”

Martin jumped with a sound of shock, jerking away from the lock so fast it rattled back against the door. He instinctively held the knife between him and Helen, taking a step backwards. She eyed the blade like it was a particularly adorable kitten. 

“You’re finally making another appearance then?” Martin asked, trying to keep his voice light. He took another step backwards, breathing easier when Helen made no move to follow. “I almost forgot you were here.”

“Oh, Martin, feeling a bit neglected, were you?” she grinned, leaning against her yellow door embedded in the wall. “Don’t worry. I’ve been watching with great anticipation.”

Anticipation for _what,_ Martin wanted to ask. He could see she was waiting for him to ask, her smile curled so wide he could almost see what must have been her molars. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. “Watching all you can really do, nowadays?” he asked flatly.

Helen’s smile faltered slightly, her eyes slitting. “Still in a mood, I see.”

“I’m not in a mood,” Martin replied acidly. “I just don’t like you.”

“Now that,” she said, slowly, “is a shame, darling, because I very much like you.” She eyed the lock he’d been fiddling with, then snapped her gaze back to look at him. “In need of a door?”

“Not in a hundred years,” Martin said, taking another step back.

She barked a laugh that had him stumbling, confused. “Oh, Martin, darling, _that’s_ funny.”

Martin frowned at her, eyes narrowing. “What is?” he asked cautiously. 

Her grin returned full force. “I’m sure you’ll get the joke eventually, Martin. It’s just...” she laughed again, the sound aching in Martin’s ears. “Some people get a hundred years, and they don’t even know it.”

She grinned wider at Martin’s deepening frown. Reaching out with a lengthy, sharp finger, she flicked the lock, giving him a pointed glance. “You have far too much up and down motion, darling. Do try to apply some pressure to the left.”

Martin blinked, lowering the knife and glancing at the lock, and when he looked up again, Helen and her door were gone without a trace.

When he finally tried the lock again, pressing to the left, it sprang open as quickly as if he’d had the key in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmm interestingggg what will martin do next and will he make good decisions or bad ones??? Who knows, certainly not Martin.
> 
> Apologies for the lack of Jon in this chapter, I promise he will feature more in the next one.
> 
> Also, listening to the most recent episode (183) has totally validated a plot point/concept I decided on ages ago and I’m ecstatic. Like YES Jonny I saw you, I hear you, I’m with you on that one! (Don’t worry tho guys this WILL have a happy ending I promise. No tragedies here)


	14. The Creeping Dread

It was lovely outside. There was the lingering chill of winter that prickled at his lungs as he took a breath, the sun shining through the trees keeping the cold from seeping in too deeply, and the absence of any bite of wind. The afternoon was perfectly still, the snow long gone and melted away.

Martin stepped out into it, taking another, long breath, and closing his eyes. 

The grass was overgrown around the estate, dotted with wildflowers like flecks of paint. After so long a time spent with the muted colors of winter, the bright green of the grounds was practically blinding, like stepping into technicolor. The view he’d had from the window didn’t quite compare. 

Martin sank into the grass, running his hands over the towering blades, a smile pulling at his face. He lay back, looking up at the clear blue of the sky and the lazily drifting clouds, fingers absentmindedly twisting in the grass. He spent a few minutes just marveling in the peaceful quiet, and the barest tickle of a breeze on his face. 

He liked the estate well enough, but lately it had been harder to ignore the ominous book at the center of The Archive. Harder to ignore the urgency of what they all wanted from him. He took this moment just to breathe, and pretend the world wasn’t truly on his shoulders. 

It was a peaceful respite. At least, until a feeling crept down his spine, a prickling feeling of being watched. 

Martin went very still where he lay, then cautiously and slowly sat up, tamping down on the instinct to telegraph his discomfort. He looked to the woods beyond the estate first, scanning the trees, as his hand went to the boning knife he’d kept tucked into a strap on his boot. He’d considered leaving it behind when he’d got the lock open, but remembering what had happened with Melanie—even though he didn’t plan to go beyond the gate—he’d decided he’d feel safer with it. Even brandishing it against Helen, though he was sure it wouldn’t have actually helped any, had made him feel a bit better. 

He couldn’t see anything in the thick line of trees. The gentle wind rustled the leaves, and his eyes snapped to each bit of movement, but nothing jumped out at him. Still, the prickling feeling of being watched remained. On the back of his neck. As if...coming from behind him.

Martin whirled around to look back at the estate, and the feeling receded, as if shy. He furrowed his brow in confusion, trying to peer through the plethora of windows where he sat, attempting to see if anyone might be looking out. He didn’t see anyone, and the feeling didn’t return. 

Slowly and mildly suspiciously, Martin sank back down onto his forearms, drawing his gaze away from the estate. He cast another, cursory glance at the forest beyond the gate, but saw nothing eye-catching. He wouldn’t have put it past Tim to play a little prank, staring at him from inside until Martin just began to notice, before ducking away again. 

And yet...Martin couldn’t quite help but think of Jon’s glances in The Archive, when he thought Martin wasn’t looking.

Scrubbing a hand over his face as if he could physically brush away the flush on his face, Martin lay back into the grass, banishing the thought. 

He ended up dozing off for an hour or so, and getting a bit of a sunburn. It was lovely. 

* * *

Surprisingly, there was...utterly no fallout from picking the lock. Later when he visited the library, Basira gave him a sideways look and murmured something about breaking and entering experience, but apart from that moment, no one mentioned anything, and the lock disappeared. 

It should have left him delighted. Confrontation made him nervous at the best of times, and he was...relieved he didn’t have to argue his case like he was in the wrong, but...

It still felt strange, like they were tiptoeing around it, and no one wanted to broach the topic.

Experimentally, he mentioned the lock to Tim the next day, when they were spending some time in the greenhouse. They’d managed most of the cleaning up the place needed, and were tending to what was left of the plants. There was a decidedly sickly bunch of flowers which might have been the centerpiece of the place once upon a time, and Martin was determined to save what was left of them. The color of them was still there, dots of pinks and salmons and whites, though there were fewer than there should have been, and they were shriveled and small. 

Tim, with his head practically buried in the geraniums, didn’t seem to hear Martin’s question about the lock. 

Martin sighed, raising his brows and trying again. “Tim.”

“Hm?” Tim said distractedly, after a moment. His attention remained, inexplicably, elsewhere. 

“What on earth are you doing?” Martin asked, exasperated. 

“Hold on,” Tim replied, his grin audible. “I’ve almost got the bugger, just... _there_ we go.” His head emerged from the geraniums, his cheeks brushed with dirt, and his index finger held out. He looked absurdly excited, and when Martin followed his gaze, he saw the tiny, green caterpillar slowly inching its way down his finger. “I love him. My new companion.” Tim actually cooed at it. 

Martin tried to hide his distaste. “Very cute. Why don’t you take him outside—we wouldn’t want him to get at more of the garden.”

Tim gave him a mock offended look, bringing his hand and the caterpillar on it closer to his chest. “Don’t speak to me or my son like that.”

“Your _son_ will do just as well _outside_ the greenhouse we’re trying to save as in it, so—no, wait don’t put him—” Martin cut off and sighed when Tim happily placed the caterpillar straight back into the geranium bush. “Excellent,” Martin said dryly, giving Tim a flat look that achieved utterly nothing. “You were clearly no gardener in a former life.”

“I _did_ say I wasn’t,” Tim pointed out cheerily. “Shame, Martin, to want to cast an innocent caterpillar from his home. He probably has a caterpillar wife and caterpillar family to provide for, and you’d leave them without a father? I never knew you were so heartless.”

Despite himself, Martin couldn’t help the slight smile that twitched on his face as Tim went on. “I’ll know who to blame, then, when we eventually find leaves polka dotted with holes.”

“I’ll take the fall for them,” Tim said easily. He adjusted from sitting on his knees, sitting with his legs crossed, and tilting his head at Martin. “What were you asking? Before, I mean.”

Martin blinked, having almost forgotten. “Oh. Yeah, I...you know the padlock on the door?”

Martin watched Tim’s face carefully, but all Tim did was furrow his brow slightly, as if confused as to why Martin was bringing it up. “Yes?” Tim answered, stretching out the word and raising his brows.

Martin waited for a moment to see if he would say anything else, but he didn’t. Mildly frustrated, Martin added, “you know it’s gone now, right?”

Tim blinked at that, surprise flashing across his face. “Oh, Basira finally took it down, then? I was beginning to think she’d be paranoid about it forever.”

“Paranoid about what?” Martin asked, latching onto the topic.

“About something getting in,” Tim answered, settling back to lean on his hands. “I think she put it up...well, right after you showed up. At first, well, we thought you might be of The Stranger—a very silly thought, now, of course,” he said, flashing a grin. “But she argued if you could get in, it was at least _possible_ something else could too. I mean, with Jon’s limited abilities, even back at the start, we were having to do more guesswork than we’d have liked.” Tim shrugged. “Supposed she’s given up on the idea now.”

Martin stared at the tiles of the floor between them, processing. “So...that’s all the lock was for?” he asked, slowly.

Tim blinked at him. “Think so,” he said, after a moment. “What—oh. You thought it was for _you_?”

Martin shrugged, face flushing. He felt a little foolish with how much thought he’d put into it. “Maybe.”

Tim opened his mouth, grin already forming, when he paused, as if a thought struck him. “Actually...that may have been one of the reasons. In the beginning, at least.”

Martin frowned, the relief he’d felt already fading. “Really?”

“I mean, when we thought you might be The Stranger, yes,” Tim said again, tilting his head as he thought it over. “To be honest, I wasn’t really a part of that conversation. Think it was Basira and Jon who came up with the lock. I was busy just being ecstatic _something_ had happened in this damn place.”

“Oh,” Martin said, frowning.

His dissatisfaction with the answer must have shown on his face, because Tim said, “Martin, I’m sure it was just Basira being cautious. She’s like that. Sensible.” Tim reached out a hand, brushing one of the petals of the geraniums, then said after a moment, “actually, it might be a good idea to keep the lock up.”

“Why?” Martin asked.

“Well, from what I figure, there’s only one other person we might have to worry about who’s snuck into the estate before.” Martin stared at him, at a loss as to who he meant. Tim looked considering, then said, “You know, it kinda rhymes with flammable pain.”

Martin’s face crumpled in confusion, until it clicked. “Annabelle Cane?”

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner.”

Martin was silent for a moment, thinking it over. Even just her name was ominous. Martin didn’t like the sound of it, and liked it even less that hearing it, for whatever reason, sent shivers down his spine. “Do you really think she’ll come back? That she even could come onto the grounds?”

Tim shrugged, his gaze drifting over the greenhouse. “Dunno. Maybe not, but...I wouldn’t put it past her. She has to be out there somewhere. Doing God knows what in her spindly web.”

Martin wondered why his mouth felt so dry all of a sudden, why his heart thudded louder in his chest. “Do you think...do you think the Web wants the Stranger to win? And that's the reason Annabelle gave Jon the book?”

Tim shrugged again, still looking at nothing in particular, but something dark flashed across his face. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. As far as I can tell, no one _ever_ knows what the Web wants. I think, at best, this is all just some game to them. And at worst, well. All the fears are evil, and I hate— _hate_ the Stranger more than anything,” he said, face twisting. “But the Web...the Web is the one that scares me.”

Martin swallowed dryly, eyes dropping away from Tim’s face. He carefully did not look at the glint of gold he could see connecting their chests, just at the corner of his eye. “Right,” he said. It sounded strained even to him.

Tim looked at him, as if taking in his expression for the first time. “Look, don’t worry about the Web, alright? For now, all we have to worry about is the book. Doesn’t do us any good to think about what we probably won’t ever know.”

Martin studied Tim’s face, and for the first time wondered if Jon had shared what Martin had told him with any of the others. He’d assumed so, at first, but the way Tim had briefly looked so confused at Martin’s worry...

“Seriously,” Tim said, tilting his head trying to meet Martin’s eyes. “You alright?”

Martin met his gaze. He could mention it. Mention why the Web was constantly on his mind. But Tim had sounded so...he’d sounded like...

Martin imagined Tim’s warm smile disappearing, and his eyes going cold with fear and distrust, and felt sick. Martin took a carefully measured breath, and tried not to look at that glowing thread between them, that shivered along with Tim’s concern. He tried for a smile. “Fine,” he said, and it was almost believable. 

* * *

Martin took to listening to statements outside, now that the weather was bearable again. Now that he could, with the padlock gone. It would have been easy to immerse himself in them, if each time he left the estate, he didn’t feel the prickle of eyes on him. 

The third time it happened was when he was in the middle of a Web statement, of all things, which already managed to make him uneasy enough. When he’d abruptly felt that prickling feeling, he jumped a little bit, on edge. Scowling, he sent a glare back at the estate, and the sensation retreated slightly, but didn’t go away. 

This was getting ridiculous.

He tried shutting his eyes to focus on Jon’s voice reading the statement, but it was impossible to focus on the words with the feeling of eyes at his back. He took a frustrated breath, getting to his feet, and whirling around. 

Martin tried The Archive first, a logical place to start, but huffed when he found it empty. Setting back down the stairs, he crossed paths with Sasha, who was hefting a basket of laundry at her hip. “Hello,” he said, though from Sasha’s answering expression with her eyebrows climbing high, Martin hadn’t come across as very genial. “Sorry,” he winced. “I’m just...” he sighed. “Have you seen Jon?”

“Mm, think he’s in the library,” Sasha recalled, after a moment. She glanced over Martin’s expression, then asked, “why? He do something stupid?”

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Martin grumbled.

Sasha barked a laugh, moving up to pass him. “Give him hell, then.”

Martin followed Sasha’s direction to the library, and did indeed find Jon there, at one of the few oak tables. When Martin entered, he looked from where he’d been staring at nothing in particular, statements and cassettes scattered and seemingly forgotten in front of him. He didn’t seem surprised at Martin’s abrupt entry. That essentially answered Martin’s question, but he decided he should at least give Jon a chance to answer for himself. “Have you been watching me?”

Martin heard Jon take a breath and saw his shoulders rise with it. “Yes,” he said. 

Martin nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. He heard Jon take a breath as if he were about to say something, but couldn’t help but blurt, “can you _not_ do that?”

Jon blinked at him, going quiet, and Martin’s pent up frustrations came out of him like a whirlwind. “It’s just. It’s so distracting, while I’m trying to get through statements that _you_ think I need to listen to, to experience the Eye, or whatever. And—and I _know_ I said that I didn’t mind you watching out for Helen, but she already had her little moment in the spotlight the other day while you were dead to the world—”

“ _What?_ ” Jon asked abruptly, but the tirade refused to stop.

“—and I don’t know if it’s my listening to statements, or the shit with the Web, or if you’re just being _really_ obvious about it, but I can _feel_ your staring lately, and it’s just—it’s just—”

It’s just when he felt that Jon was looking at him, it meant Martin was thinking about Jon, and he had really been trying not to do that lately, and he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that Jon was watching him out of _distrust,_ and not in any way Martin would have wanted. 

Martin swallowed around the dryness of his throat, looking down at the floor between them. “Just...it’s fine. You don’t have to watch me anymore, I’m not...I’m not going to do anything.”

There was a brief silence from Jon, then what sounded like a sigh. Martin glanced up when he heard Jon approach. “If it upsets you so much, I won’t,” Jon said, and his voice sounded so exhausted that Martin immediately felt guilty. “But if you insist on listening to statements outside, then...here.” Jon reached out for Martin’s hand, pressing a cassette tape into it. Martin stared down at it, then at Jon, brow furrowed. “It doesn’t have anything on it. Just...keep it on you, when you’re on the grounds outside the estate. I know...I should be able to sense if anything or anyone passes onto the grounds, and I don’t think the barrier’s weak enough for that to happen, but...with what happened with Melanie...” Jon trailed off, and Martin caught his eyes glancing down at Martin’s right hand, finally healed enough to take the bandage off. “Just, if anything happens, put it in the cassette player and hit record, and that way...that way I’ll know.” 

Martin stared at him, feeling a lump forming in his throat. “Oh,” he said softly, fiddling with the cassette in his hands. Of all the things he’d expected Jon to say, it hadn’t been that. The golden thread between their chests twinkled at him, and Martin tried to curb the fluttering of his heart. “Thank you. I...I’m sorry, I just...I just burst in and started laying on to you, and you—” Martin’s throat abruptly failed him. “I’m sorry.”

Jon blinked at him. “It’s fine, Martin.”

“It’s not, though,” Martin argued. “I... feel like I’ve barely seen you all week, except nights in The Archive. Are you doing alright?”

Jon just looked at him for a moment, shoulders slowly losing any tension they may have taken on. “I’m alright, Martin,” he said softly.

That lump in his throat only got worse at the sound of Jon’s voice, so very soft, like there was the smallest smile wrapped around it. “You’re sure?” he asked. “Sasha mentioned you’ve been recording more statements than usual. I...if you need an extra hand in recording them, I could—”

“No,” Jon said, gently but firmly. “You don’t need to do that for me, Martin.”

Martin opened his mouth to press the issue, but Jon just tilted his head and _looked_ at him, already ready to assure, again, that it wouldn’t be necessary. And, well. Martin didn’t actually want to do it, didn’t want to feel that awful sensation of being pinned in place like every eye in the world was turned to him at once, but...he would have done it. For Jon. If it could help Jon feel less exhausted, less like the world was on his shoulders as well. 

Martin’s eyes caught on the thread between them, and briefly thought of running his hand over it, strumming it and seeing what feelings echoed back at him. Would they be the same as the ones that ballooned, bright and warm and difficult to ignore like the ones in his chest? 

And what if they weren’t the same? Surely uncertainty of requited feelings was less painful than the stinging certainty of unrequited ones. His hand twitched, but he didn’t reach out to touch the thread. Couldn’t bring himself to.

“If you ever do need help,” Martin said softly, drawing his gaze up to meet Jon’s eyes, “I’ll be here.” He held up the cassette Jon had given him, quirking a small smile. “It goes both ways, right?”

Jon huffed what almost sounded like a laugh. Martin had often imagined what his face might look like when he did so. Eyes crinkled at the corners, one side of his mouth quirking up higher than the other, his nose scrunching up slightly. It was maddening to be so close, and to have utterly no idea if he was right. 

He wondered if he ever would, and the thought that he might never know was so painful he didn’t dwell on it long. 

* * *

A few days later had Martin gathering up a recorder for another trip outside. He was searching for the tape of a statement he’d picked out just an hour before, sure he’d left it on the windowsill of The Archive. Had it gotten swept up in the blanket when he’d moved it from the cot?

He checked, unfolding it and shaking it out, but didn’t see anything. Frowning, he cast one more glance up at the room, and finally spotted a small cassette tape by the base of the shelf with the most recent statements. Martin walked over and picked it up, frowning. He supposed it could have...fallen out of the blanket and been flung over here. He would have thought he’d have heard such a thing, but he supposed stranger things had happened. 

He brought the cassette and the cassette player outside, settling in his normal spot in the grass. The blank tape Jon gave him was in his cardigan pocket. Martin was hyper aware of the weight of it, had turned it over in his hands enough time that he was innately familiar with its edges. 

He took a moment to breath, and when he was settled, he plopped the statement tape in the cassette player and hit play. Immediately, Jon’s voice trailed out of the tape, but surprisingly, another woman’s voice came almost immediately after. Jon asked if she was alright with him recording, and the softness in Jon’s voice had Martin sitting up, listening closer. This didn’t sound like a normal statement, certainly not the routine one he’d expected upon picking it out. He’d thought the file had labeled the one he’d picked as a Spiral statement?

The woman told her story on the tape, what she’d described as “ _regarding the last words of a possible corpse_.”

Martin listened, rapt, as she spoke, completely immersed in the tape. It wasn’t until about ten minutes in when he finally noticed a flash of movement at the corner of his eye. Martin looked up and froze, fear dropping his stomach. 

There, at the gate, sitting right up against it, was Melanie, with her blood splattered face and eyes locked on the cassette player in Martin’s hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild melanie appears! Stay tuned to see what our lovely slaughter avatar will do next


	15. The Comforting Embrace of Familiar Face

Martin clutched the cassette player in his grip, his heart beating like a drum in his ears, roaring, drowning out the sound of the recording. Melanie was still where she sat on the other side of the gate, but Martin knew how fast she could move. The blank tape Jon had given him was a noticeable weight in the pocket of his cardigan. The knife he’d kept from the kitchen was strapped against the side of his boot. If he moved slowly, he might have been able to draw it out without her noticing, but...then what? 

Melanie was far more adept at using knives than he was, could probably throw one from where she was before Martin got his untangled from the laces. As for the blank tape Jon had given him...as soon as he stopped the current recording, she would notice. 

Strangely, her eyes hadn’t moved from the tape recorder in Martin’s hands. 

When no immediate threat was apparent, Martin’s panic began to dissipate. Melanie just...sat there. Her eyes not on him, but the recorder. Her face was pale, the blood a stark contrast on her skin, and her eyes...Martin was almost too far away to tell. But he didn’t see anything of that red rage from before, and the look in them almost seemed like...

Martin furrowed his brow, looking closer. She didn’t look at all postural like she had before. There was no barely contained violence in her frame, she was practically slumped against the gate, staring at the recorder in Martin’s hands with an almost drawn expression. He might have said she looked sad, upon that first panic filled glance, but now, studying her closer...she looked _gutted._ Devastated. It was in the way she sat, her arm curled over her chest and hand tangled in the washed out fabric of her shirt, as if she was trying to hold herself together. It was in the slightest furrow between her brows, and the way her mouth pinched downward at the corners. What someone looked like if they were, perhaps, on the brink of crying.

The recording whirred on in the background, Georgina Barker’s voice filling the space between them in measured, pleasing syllables. Melanie did not look away from the recording, and Martin did not look away from her, a dawning realization making itself known to him. Basira’s words from so long ago rang in his head, when she spoke of Daisy. _A reminder,_ she’d said. _A reminder that she’s not all Hunt._

Despite the remainders of that primal panic, Martin took a breath, gathering himself and shifting his grip on the tape recorder. When he stood up, Melanie’s eyes finally shifted up to him. The look in them was unreadable. Still, her stare leveled at him was almost enough to send him booking it back to the estate. He took a shaky breath to tamp down on the jolt of fear. Slowly, a step at a time, he approached the gate. Melanie watched him, silent, as he came closer. He stopped a few feet away, as close as he dared, and ever so slowly placed the still-running tape recorder between them. 

Melanie’s eyes dropped from his to the recorder, and back, studying his face. He looked back at her, and tried not to feel terrified. Georgina Barker’s statement filled the air between them.

After a few moments, her attention dropped back to the recorder. Now that he was closer, Martin could clearly see the emotion that welled up in her eyes as she listened to the rest of it. A kind of distant, devastating longing that made his heart ache in his chest. Quietly, he sat in the grass across from her, with the bars of the fence between them, as the statement slowly wound down.

 _“So that’s it,”_ Georgina Barker said. 

When Jon’s voice returned on the recording, Melanie’s eyes flickered, as if coming out of a daze. She glanced away from the cassette player, but continued to listen until the tape ran out, and the cassette clicked itself to a stop. 

Martin watched her, nervous in the sudden silence. Melane made no abrupt movements, no hints that she might be about to lash out. She only sighed, long and slow. “Are there any more?” she finally asked, her voice hoarse, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it.

Martin blinked at her, realizing he’d never heard her speak before. “Any more what?” he managed to get out.

Her eyes dropped back to the recorder for a moment, laying quiet between them in the grass. “Any more of her,” she murmured.

“I...I don’t know,” he answered honestly. Though at the visible flicker of sadness on her face, he rushed to add, “but I-I can look. I can, I promise. Uh, any ones with...Georgina Barker, right?”

The corner of Melanie’s mouth quirked up briefly, her nose scrunching. “She hated that name. Probably only gave it that way to have a professional record.” The trace of that quick smile disappeared, her throat bobbing up and down. “She preferred Georgie.”

“You knew her?” Martin asked tentatively.

Melanie’s expression flickered at that, her eyes closing briefly. “Yeah,” she answered. “Yeah, I did. I...it’s been a long time since I’ve thought of her.”

Martin swallowed, ignoring the pang in his chest that brought about. There was someone, always lingering in the corners of his mind, that he had carefully managed not to think about, for almost as long as he’d been there. He didn’t want to let his thoughts stray to her now. So he asked, softly, “good memories? Or bad ones?”

Melanie’s eyes met his straight on. He couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d looked at him so intently, with a knife in her hand set to plunge. There was no hint of red in her pupils now, though. Nothing but black pupils surrounded by a deep, dark brown. “Good ones,” she said. “And one bad.”

Martin nodded, but didn’t press. Melanie’s eyes flickered down to his hand. “I hurt you, didn’t I?”

It was an instinctive thing, to curl his left hand over his right. “Could have hurt me worse,” he said, trying for a laugh that fell immediately flat. “Besides. It’s...well, it isn’t as if you meant to, right?”

“I did mean to,” she said bitterly. “When I saw you, there was...nothing I could have wanted more.”

The words should have inspired that fear again. Should have sent his heart beating too fast and his breath catching in his throat, but...the way Melanie’s face twisted as she said it, like she hated admitting to it...

It just made him sad. 

“Do you want to hurt me now?” he asked calmly.

Melanie met his eyes again, brow furrowing as she studied his face, then smoothing out. “No,” she said, after a moment. “I don’t.”

* * *

Martin had wasted no time upon returning to the estate. He headed straight to The Archive. Sasha’s voice from the recording room was the only real sound. Jon was absent, as was becoming the norm most days. He tried not to let his thoughts hang up on that: that Jon seemed more and more tired every day and no matter how often Sasha recorded anymore, it didn’t seem to be doing any good. Instead, he closed his eyes, and thought of Georgie Barker’s voice. 

When he opened them, the golden threads were there, streaming from his chest, plunging into the stacks of The Archive. 

They led him to two tapes. Just two. It was less than he’d hoped for, and skimming through the audio revealed Georgie’s voice in snippets at the beginning, in brief conversation with Jon before he launched into the recordings in earnest. He tapped the two tapes together, sitting at Jon’s desk, pensive. 

_“Would you meet me tomorrow?”_ he’d asked of Melanie, when it looked as though she turned to leave. _“I could...I could find more tapes.”_

She’d merely looked at him for a moment, then she looked back at the estate, an expression Martin couldn’t pinpoint flickering across her face. When she’d looked back at him, her eyes were hard. _“Just you,”_ she’d said. It wasn’t a question.

Martin had hesitated for only a moment before confirming, _“just me.”_

Perhaps it was horribly foolish to agree to meet with her alone again. He’d bring the blank tape Jon had given him, as well as keep the knife strapped to his boot. Just in case. But...she hadn’t seemed hostile. At all. He supposed it could have been a trick, but...what on earth would have been the point of that? The few statements he’d listened to about the Slaughter had been about mindless, brutal violence—nothing meticulously planned or scheming about it. 

With the tapes of Georgie found, he itched for something else to do, something that didn’t feel like biding his time. 

Jon was getting worse. No one was saying anything about it, but Martin knew. Jon was getting worse. The book continued to leak out its black ink nightly. The Stranger grew more powerful outside. Martin itched to do _something,_ and listening to statements...it never felt like enough. 

There was something he was meant to do here, and he desperately wanted to know what it was. Frustrated, Martin pushed away from the desk, standing up. He made to leave The Archive, maybe take a walk outside, but a thought struck him. He turned, glancing back into the room. Perhaps what he was meant to do with the book would remain a mystery, for the moment. But there was something he could get to the bottom of. 

Slowly, Martin weaved his way through the shelves at the middle of The Archive, until he found the spot in the floor, with its loose floorboard and the secrets underneath.

* * *

Martin understood why these wax recordings had been hidden away. The next one he slotted into the phonograph included several, disjointed recordings. The first of which included low murmuring, the words almost inaudible, but the tone of them tender, in a way that Martin felt as though he were intruding merely by listening. The sounds of fabric rustling were interspersed, then out of nowhere, a curse, a shuffling, and a muttered, “mind of its own,” before the recording cut away. 

The wax cylinder spun on for a few moments of silence, and then another recording on the same cylinder. The sounds of flipping paper could be heard, occasionally broken by the sound of sighing. A tapping sound. Another sigh. Finally, after about a minute of silence, broken only by pages scraping against each other, there was the sound of a door opening. 

_“You’re back,”_ the second, elusive voice said. It was a stark contrast to how Martin remembered it from the previous wax cylinder. It sounded tired.

 _“I am,”_ came Jonah Magnus’ voice, after a brief pause. 

There was the sound of fabric scraping, a chair pushed against the floor. _“I missed you,”_ the second voice said, softer. _“Lord, you’re freezing—we haven’t gotten snow already, have we? Did it delay the train as well?”_

 _“No,”_ Jonah Magnus’ voice came again, a strange distance in it. _“No snow.”_

There was a heavy pause. Then, the second voice, flatly, _“so the reason you’re back nearly 48 hours after you said you would be is...?”_

 _“An opportunity came along,”_ Magnus replied, just as shortly. _“I took it. I didn’t realize I had to inform you of everything I do—”_

 _“I was_ concerned _. You tell me you’re off to Saint Mary’s for some artifact—the majority in your collection, I might point out, are awful, dangerous things—and you disappear for two days? I’d have to be absent of a heart or brain to be unconcerned, Jonah.”_

 _“I rather thought you prefered to be_ uninvolved _with my affairs,”_ Magnus shot back coldly.

 _“Oh, rich, to spin it back to me. So sorry I don’t particularly like that room of horrors you keep, but let’s not forget that you act put upon, at best, whenever I even_ ask _about anything you’ve collected—”_

_“Would you like to know what I’ve come back with then, hm? The cloak made of purest darkness tied to dozens of disappearances? It was because of that passage you found that I even found it at all. So, since you’re supposedly so eager to hear—”_

_“I’m eager to hear what kept you away for two days, while I thought you might be_ dead—”

_“Honestly, Barnabas—”_

_“Would it have been_ so _difficult to send a telegram? Because it wasn’t as though I could even ask around, with you so concerned about how you’re perceived—”_

 _“It’s_ not, _” Magnus snapped, “my fault that you can’t stand to be alone like a child. You’d think you’d be used to it by now, in that big empty house.”_

There was a weighted, ugly silence then. Martin sat frozen, listening rapt, for any hint of a voice, but for the next few moments there was nothing but static. Finally, Magnus’ voice came again, much softer, and sufficiently cowed. _“I...I’m sorry, I didn’t...I didn’t mean that, Barn—”_ There was a creaking sound, and the sound of footfalls. _“Darling, wait, I didn’t—I’m sorry, I should have told you. I met Mordacai Lukas at the train station.”_ The footfalls paused. Magnus’ voice came again, mild relief palpable in it. _“I spoke to him about the collection and he invited me back to the estate to discuss it further.”_

 _“You spoke with a Lukas?”_ Barnabas asked.

_“I did.”_

_“The Lukases. The ones who own half the hill?”_

_“The very same. I’d always known the Lukases had ties with Robert Smirke, but...well, Mordacai Lukas was in Wiltshire on business and when I spoke to him about St. Mary’s and why I was there he seemed...particularly interested. Said his family had long been invested in the occult and the supernatural. And it seems...he’s interested in funding The Archive.”_

There was another silence. Then, Barnabas said flatly, “ _I’m happy for you.”_

Footfalls echoed through the recording again, as well as sounds of Magnus calling Barnabas’ name. Then, the sound of a door closing. A sigh. Pacing footfalls. A pause. Then, footfalls sounding closer and closer. _“Barnabas!”_ Magnus called. _“Did you turn the recorder on?”_

There was no reply, only the whirring of the recording. 

Then, a slight creaking. A pause. Then, Jonah Magnus’ voice, closer now, as if he were right next to the phonograph when he spoke. _“Hello?”_

Martin went cold, his eyes locked on the phonograph, his fingers gripping the sides of the chair. 

_“You’re fond of listening, aren’t you?”_ Jonah Magnus was saying softly, as Martin’s heartbeat roared in his ears. _“What are you?”_

Martin found it hard to breathe in the silence, so irrationally afraid to break it on the chance that this person, long dead, might have been able to hear him. He waited, with bated breath, until Magnus finally murmured, _“curious.”_

A clicking sound came through the recording, the cylinder came to a stop, and Martin’s breath left him shakily. 

He quietly removed the wax cylinder with trembling hands, and returned it to The Archive. There were two left. Two cylinders that he had yet to listen to, that had been hidden away in the floor. 

He didn’t listen to any more, that day.

Martin did find himself paying more attention to the paintings on the walls, his eyes catching on the portraits. None of them looked quite like what he was expecting. 

He was staring up at one of a stuffy looking man in an ostentatious coat when Sasha passed by. Martin nearly didn’t hear her until she was right beside him, but he luckily noticed before he could startle too badly.

“What’re you doing?” Sasha asked curiously, eyeing where he’d been looking. “It’s not very flattering, is it?” she murmured after a moment. “You wonder why he had it commissioned.”

“Do you know who it is?” Martin asked, glancing at her.

“Uh, think it might have been one of the old investors in the place,” she said. “Portraits were put up of them, kind of like getting their names on the place but more...”

“Obnoxious?” Martin said.

She grinned. “Suppose that’s a blunt way of putting it.”

“Are there any of Jonah Magnus?” Martin asked, after a moment of hesitation.

Sasha frowned pensively. “There are. Why?”

“I found some statements of his,” Martin said. He thought of elaborating further, but something in him...quailed at the idea. “Just want to put a face to the name.”

Sasha glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but after a moment, slowly said, “we actually had to put them all in storage. They were old. Bugs had gotten to them.”

Martin frowned, trying to tamp down on the strange disappointment. “Could I see them anyway?”

Sasha led him down to the storage room. He noticed the curious glances she kept sending at him, but he was distracted by the recording he’d listened to, and a nagging feeling about it that he couldn’t quite shake. It wasn’t like the feeling after listening to a statement about one of the fears. That was just more of an uneasy, gloomy feeling, but this...it was like something was just at the edges of conscious thought, and he saw a bit of a corner. Something he couldn’t quite name that nagged at him all the same.

“This is it,” Sasha told him, opening up the door to a room near the back of the estate. “The portraits are all piled up against the wall there,” she said, pointing.

Martin followed her direction to see the bulk of frames, covered by a tarp, against the base of the wall. “You said you had to take them down because insects got to them?”

“Yeah. Over the years they all started fraying away, holes bitten into them. Recently, though, it got worse.”

“How recently?” Martin asked, glancing back at her.

She looked back at him levelly, and when she spoke there was a pointedness to her words. “Last three years or so.”

The time just after the book came to the estate. Just after everything went wrong. 

“Look,” she said, after a moment “I’ve got to get back to recording. Could you close the door when you’re done?”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin replied, distractedly. “Is...is Jon...?”

“He’s sleeping,” she answered softly. 

Martin nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Right.”

“Hey,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “Don’t dwell on it. We’ll get through it. Alright?”

“Sure,” Martin said, trying for a smile. 

She squeezed his arm, then flicked a finger under his chin. “Buck up,” she said, grinning.

Martin batted her hand away, rolling his eyes. “Quit it.”

“I won’t. In fact, I’m going to tell Tim to tickle you when you least expect it,” she said, on her way out.

“You will not!” Martin called after her, sticking his head out into the hall. 

She pretended not to hear him. 

When he ducked back into the room, he was smiling, but it slowly dropped away from his face as he approached the portraits against the wall. The tarp covering them was a waxy, bulky thing. He pulled it to the floor, revealing the first painting underneath. 

Martin had expected a painting in utter tatters, but the frame and the canvas directly attached was surprisingly intact, if filthy with cobwebs. The painted shoulders and sloping coat were clearly visible. It was up at the neck where the damage started to appear, frayed holes in the canvas. The damage grew as his eyes raked up the portrait. The mouth was peppered with scratches and holes. The nose all but disappeared. But the true damage was further up. There was nothing left but fibers of the canvas and bits of drifting cobweb at the level of Jonah Magnus’ eyes. 

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Martin said to Melanie, after the final recording had clicked and gone quiet. “I couldn’t find any more.”

Melanie flashed him a quick, barely there smile. “‘S alright. Figured there wouldn’t be many.”

Martin studied her, where she sat across from him in the grass, beyond the boundaries of the estate. She was wearing different clothes than yesterday, overalls over a t-shirt, still a bit ratty and faded, but they didn’t look blood stained or torn. Not really what he would have immediately expected from an avatar of the Slaughter, but...perhaps it was more chilling if someone happily stabbed another person to death and then went about doing menial chores like laundry. He carefully didn’t look at the suspicious stains on her fraying sneakers, and strayed away from that line of thought. 

She looked as tired as she had the day before, purple smudges under her eyes, short, black hair a bit of a mess. Martin could see dirt under her fingernails where she drummed them against the bars of the gate. But in her face, there was more of a quiet pensiveness than anything else. 

“How do you know her? Georgie, I mean,” Martin clarified, when Melanie raised a brow at the question.

Melanie blew out a breath. “Really know how to pick the hard hitters, Martin.”

He winced. “I’m sorry, it’s—you don’t have to answer—”

“No, it’s...it’s alright,” she assured, waving a careless hand. “I just...I _do_ like thinking of her, is the thing. Even if it hurts.”

Martin swallowed, his eyes dropping to the grass as he twirled his fingers around a clump. “Makes sense,” he said softly.

Melanie took a moment before speaking, her brown eyes looking somewhere in the distance between them, her arm wrapping around her propped up leg. “She was someone important to me. Before. It’s...it’s frustrating, we were just on the cusp of figuring out what _exactly_ we were before...everything happened.”

“Before stopping the Unknowing?” Martin asked.

Melanie’s nose scrunched slightly, the corner of her mouth quirking up in a bitter smile. “Stopping,” she scoffed. “I don’t think we really stopped anything, do you? From out here it looks like we’ve made everything a whole lot worse.”

Martin pressed his lips together, thinking about what it must have been like to live outside the estate for so long, with no protection from what came once the sun set. “Could...could I ask, what...happened, that night?” _To you,_ he didn’t want to say. 

Melanie seemed to understand what he was asking, taking a breath and glancing away. Her mouth twitched, humorlessly. “I barely even know,” she said hoarsely. “I was trying to keep Elias’ attention, and then all of a sudden...” She trailed off, her eyes distant. 

“I’d been angry before that,” she continued, after a heavy silence. “For a _long_ time. Sometimes, it was all I could feel, just this... _rush_ of fury. I wanted to lash out at anything and everything, and I wanted it to _hurt._ Me, them. It didn’t really matter. But that night? I’d never felt anything like that night. And I was looking at him, so fucking smug, and he made for the trapdoor and I just...” She cut off, taking a sharp breath. “Everything went red. In every way, and I just...lost myself in it.

“Then...when I came back enough to see it, really _see_ what I’d left of him, a-and I saw that he was still... _twitching,_ still desperately trying to cling on while his eyes started to go distant...” She took a trembling breath, her fingers clutching at nothing at all. “If you ask me, he deserved it,” she said. “But as much as I knew that, I’d...never hurt anyone like that before. I-I didn’t know I was... _capable_ of something like that, and the worst thing was I felt that rage thrumming in me despite that, just waiting for me to let it out again, _singing_ to me. I was...so afraid it would come out again, so I ran, with his fucking eyes just watching me as I stumbled away. There was only one person I could think of that might be able to understand.”

Her throat bobbed up and down, and she looked at the grass between them. At the recorder, with that final tape with any hint of Georgie Barker. “I left to find her. I was panicked, stomach sick with it. A-and I stumbled through this fucking forest that I was sure didn’t exist before, trying to find my way back to town, and all the way there...I felt this line trying to tug me back. This...force trying to keep me there, like the estate was clawing its fingers in me. But I fought it. I fought it all the way to town, and when I finally did, I made my way to her. Knocked on her door. I was sure I looked a right mess. I-I mean, people screamed when they saw me pass. But it was all I could think of, to get to her. She’d know what to do. She could help me make it right. But...when she answered the door, she--” 

Melanie abruptly cut off, her face twisting. She pressed her fingers to the corners of her eyes, scrunching them shut tight. She merely breathed for a moment, her chest rising and falling shakily. Martin could do nothing but watch, his heart aching. “She looked at me,” Melanie finally said, “like I was the most horrifying sight in the world. Like she...had _no_ idea who I was. And she _screamed,_ and it was like a knife plunging into my chest.”

She sniffed, wiping the corner of her eye and glancing away, jaw tight. “Don’t remember much after that, really. I think I ran. Think I just mindlessly followed the pull of the Eye back to the estate. But the thought of crawling back to it, back in there, after so long...I couldn't. I couldn’t, and...” She swallowed, meeting his eyes. “And I didn’t even have her anymore. The only thing I had was that rushing anger, burning inside me. And I thought...maybe getting burned up inside wouldn’t be quite so painful as the thought of her, looking at me like that.”

Martin took a shaky breath when she lapsed into silence, plucking at the grass in front of her as he had been. He thought of the pain of being forgotten like that, of being cut off from the one person you loved so immediately, and he ached. He ached like he could feel it himself, right then. “I’m so sorry. Jon said...the Stranger attacked the Eye the way it could. Shrouding this place and everyone in it from the rest of the world. That must have been what happened.”

“Jon said, did he?” she muttered.

Martin frowned at her, studying his face. “You know,” he began tentatively, “I’m sure everyone else would be thrilled to know that you’re alright.”

She scoffed, her eyes cast downward, on the blade of grass she twisted beneath her hands. “Thrilled, huh? All of them? They’re all one happy family now?”

At Martin’s questioning glance, she sighed, flicking the blade of grass to the side. “I don’t know if I could stand it. Being in there again. Maybe...maybe it was that rush in my blood, even back then, but...I never felt more alone than when I was stuck in that hellhole,” she said, jabbing a finger at the estate. “Jon was busy stewing in his own guilt, and Basira was so busy with Daisy she barely had a thought for anything else, and Tim was always so caught up in his own shit he couldn’t see two feet in front of him. And Elias, smug and satisfied above us all was jerking at our strings, I just...” She sighed. “I can’t have it be like it was, I can’t.” 

Martin studied her face, drawn and tired. He nodded, feeling the same himself. “Alright. I won’t tell them for now, if that’s what you’d like. But...I can’t keep this a secret forever.”

“Fair enough,” Melanie said. She met his eyes. “Thank you, Martin.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “And, for the record, if you do want to...to see everyone else. You’re not alone. You’re not.” He reached out, where her hand was wrapped against one of the iron bars, and he covered it with his own. 

She stared at their hands for a moment, blinking, her throat working. She met his eyes again, her own slightly wet. She nodded, and Martin pulled back. “I’m sorry,” she said, raggedly. “For what I did to you.”

“It’s okay,” Martin told her, honestly. “I forgive you.”

She choked out a wet laugh, covering her face with one hand. “Ah, fuck,” she said. “What I wouldn’t give for a cig right now.”

Martin let out a huff of a laugh, before something dawned on him. “Hold on. Did Jon smoke? He had a lighter.”

Melanie nodded slowly. “You know what...I think he did.” She raised a brow, then tilted her head and smiled wide at him. “Oh, Maaaartin?”

He sighed. “One,” he said, sticking out a finger for emphasis. “I will try to get _one._ I’m not about to feed a habit.”

She grinned wide at him, eyes sparkling, and Martin thought it suited her far better.

* * *

He ran into Jon in the hall, while searching for Sasha. It was a surprise to them both, really, Jon just coming out of his room as Martin was passing. Jon jumped a little bit, blinking owlishly, and it was...incredibly endearing. “Oh, Martin,” he said, his voice a little groggy. “Hello.”

Martin couldn’t quite tamp down on his smile. “Hi, Jon,” he said, perhaps a little too softly. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Fine,” Jon answered, as he always answered. Martin took a breath and tried not to press. “I was headed to The Archive. Were you...?”

“Oh, no, I, um. I was listening to some statements outside,” Martin explained. Not quite a lie, though he hated doing it. “I, um. I’m glad I ran into you, actually. I wanted to ask you something.”

Jon blinked at him. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I, uh.” He didn’t know how to ease into the subject. “Do you, um. Do you have any cigarettes?” 

Jon stared at him for a moment. “What?”

“Do you have any—”

“No, I-I heard you, I just...” Jon narrowed his eyes slightly. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I, um. Well, used to,” he said. Also not a lie. “I just, um. Well, one of the statements,” he found himself saying, “was making me a bit anxious, so I, um. I just had a thought that that might help.” That lie tasted bitter on his tongue. 

Especially when Jon blinked one too many times in response, his eyes darting around, and he said, “o-oh. Why didn’t you—I, um. I think so. I quit a while ago but, there’s probably a beat up box somewhere, I can—” Jon cut off before Martin could say anything, his head, tilting and eyes flashing brighter. He blinked, focusing back on Martin. “There’s a box at the bottom of my desk drawer.”

Martin felt a little sick. “You didn’t have to do that, Jon.”

“It’s fine,” Jon said again. “Here, follow me.”

And Martin did, that one little lie and the greater, unspoken one waiting outside twisting his stomach into knots. 

* * *

Smoke drifted from Melanie’s pursed lips, carried away by the wind. She sighed in contentment. “Missed this, at the very least.”

Martin silently held out a hand to get her to pass it over. She did, though with a raised brow. Martin took a drag from it, trying not to cough and trying not to think of Jon. He coughed a little bit anyway. And as for the latter...well. There was never any hope for the latter, anyway. 

He studied the cigarette held in his fingers. “I haven’t smoked since I dropped out of Uni,” he mused, taking another quick drag.

He passed it back to Melanie when she reached out for it. “I was never much for college either,” she said. “Don’t need a degree to be a ghost hunter, I always say.”

“Of course, the famous saying,” Martin muttered.

Melanie took another drag, eyeing him. “What happened? You look sad.”

“I do _not_ ,” Martin shot back. 

“Me thinks he doth—”

Martin huffed a sigh loud enough that Melanie snorted a laugh. “Seriously, Martin,” she said, after a moment, tilting her head to try to meet his eye. “You have a very distinct sad look. A bit like a kicked puppy.”

Martin sighed again, softer this time. “I’m...just worried about Jon.”

She blinked. “Jon? Why?”

Martin took the proffered cigarette when she offered it, opening his mouth to respond, but as he did, he felt it. That creeping sensation along his back, like he was being watched. 

Watched with Melanie. 

He whirled around, eyes flitting over the estate with his heart sinking. 

“Martin?” Melanie asked, her voice prickling with wariness. “What is it?”

His mouth worked soundlessly, but before he could get anything out, the doors of the estate banged open. He saw Melanie go tense in his periphery. It was Jon, and even from where he was, Martin could see the tense line of his shoulders, the way his eyes were narrowed and locked on Melanie. 

Martin’s heart climbed to his throat, and his stomach sank like a rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh ohhhhhhh
> 
> Lemme know what ya'll think, reactions, theories, emotional keysmashes, i love it


	16. The Falling out

There were a lot of things that ran through Martin’s mind, unchecked, as Jon approached. He was acutely aware of Melanie just on the other side of the fence, stiff as a board, and equipped with an unknown number of knives. He knew that the cigarette was slowly burning its way down to his fingers, and he should probably put it out soon. 

Martin was hyper aware of the tense set to Jon’s shoulders and the whites of his knuckles, not entirely due to the cold. 

He supposed the situation could have almost been comical, like Jon was some strict school teacher catching them having a cig on school grounds. He wished he could have treated it so lightly, but all he could feel was his stomach twisting into knots, and the surety of a dawning confrontation with every step Jon took toward them. 

Martin’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach when Jon brushed past him to stand between him and Melanie. Martin saw him eye the cassette recorder in the grass for a moment, but then his gaze was fixed on Melanie. “Jon—“ Martin tried.

“Go back inside the estate.”

Martin blinked at Jon’s back, reeling at the tone, colder than he’d heard it in a long time. “What? No, I’m not going to— _ow,_ shit, shit—”

Martin abruptly dropped the cigarette when it nearly singed his fingers. He stood up, stomping the butt into the grass before anything could catch, cheeks flushing as he avoided Jon’s eyes. He nearly jumped when Jon reached out to take his hand. The touch was gentle, a jarring contrast to his tone, as he looked over Martin’s hand and slightly reddened fingers.

Anything Martin would have thought to say was lost in the shock of the moment, the soft touch of Jon’s fingers as they shifted at the back of his hand and the warm press of his thumb at Martin’s palm. 

“If you wanted to join us, Jon, there were more polite ways of asking,” Melanie said flatly. 

Jon stiffened, turning to look back at her, and before Martin could think to jolt himself out of his stupor Jon let go of his hand. “What are you playing at?” Jon asked, voice low.

Martin sighed. “Jon—“

“ _Playing_ at? The fuck are you on about, Sims?” Melanie spat back, fists curling at her sides.

“I think you know _exactly_ what I mean,” Jon grit out. “In three years, you’ve never once come further than the tree line. Nothing we’ve done has been enough. So, what? The Slaughter’s just decided to let you go?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But at least I know what’s taken me over,” Melanie said, eyes glinting and teeth bared. “Look at you. Is that the Eye in there? Or something else? You always were such a _hypocrite—_ ”

“Melanie!” Martin interrupted, but Jon’s voice carried over his, the line of his shoulders tight and eyes narrowed to slits.

“Get back from the fence, or I will _make you—“_

“Alright, that is _enough!”_ Martin exclaimed, getting between them. “Jon, she’s not going to hurt me, or you, or anyone.”

It took Jon’s gaze a moment to tear away from Melanie and settle on Martin. “You don’t know that,” he said, his voice so low it was practically a growl.

“And you do?” Martin countered, raising a brow. 

Jon huffed a breath, glancing away, but then his eyes flicked back to Melanie and he set his shoulders. “I could.”

“If you even _think,_ ” Melanie practically exploded behind him, all grit teeth and fury, “of looking inside my head, I _will_ carve out those flashlights you call eyes!”

“No!” Martin said firmly, whirling around at her, “You will not. Just— _no_ one is doing _anything,”_ he emphasized, looking back at Jon, “to anyone. Is that clear?”

“Are you forgetting what she _did_ to you?” Jon asked him, eyes narrowed. “She could have _killed you._ ”

Maybe it was the way Melanie’s expression shuttered at that, a barely noticeable change in his periphery, or maybe it was the growing frustration of being argued over and ignored and patronised, but whatever it was had Martin unthinkingly shooting back, “yeah, well, you didn’t make the best first impression either, Jon.”

Jon took a visible step back at that, blinking at Martin and then at Melanie, and then at the ground between them, and he was silent for so long Martin wanted to swallow the words up again, as if he’d never said them at all. It didn’t help that Melanie was suddenly quiet as well, her narrow eyes darting between them. 

“Look,” Martin tried softly, “I just...I just mean I’m not holding anything against anyone, alright?” Jon didn’t quite meet his eyes, still staring at the ground. Martin swallowed dryly. He didn’t think this was the best conversation to continue there, with Melanie seething on the other side of the gate, and Jon...well, he had no idea what Jon was thinking, and that was part of the problem. “Can we...? Could we talk inside the estate? Please?”

Jon did look up at him then, and though Martin studied the way he stood and the slant of his shoulders, Jon seemed as unreadable as ever. Then, wordlessly, Jon turned away and started back toward the estate.

Martin’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. He turned back to Melanie, who was staring at him with a creased brow and narrowed eyes. “Just...” He glanced back at Jon, who hadn’t turned around. His heart sank. “Just...I’ll be right back,” he told her, distantly. “I promise.”

Melanie didn’t say anything in answer, and Jon was striding further away. Martin’s feet started moving after him before he had consciously made up his mind to do so. 

He caught up with Jon just as he was entering the foyer, scuffing mud off his shoes. “Jon! Jon, look, I—”

“You should have told me,” Jon said flatly. He didn’t even look at Martin, brushed past him to walk further into the estate, leaving Martin to scramble after.

“I would have, but she—she said she didn’t want to see anyone yet, a-and it seemed like she was doing better so I didn’t want to risk anything—“

“You lied to my _face_ ,” Jon said, whirling around to glare at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin told him, guilt clawing into his gut. “I wanted to, I...I just thought—”

“Clearly you didn’t,” Jon shot back, making to turn away, _again._

Martin reached out and grabbed Jon’s arm, preventing him from walking away. “I’m _sorry,_ ” he said, “that I didn’t tell you. But I really don’t understand why you’re so angry. I mean, I would be _happy,_ if—if someone I thought was lost to themselves had found their way back—“

Jon scoffed loudly. “You don’t know that—” 

“The Slaughter doesn’t _scheme,_ Jon!” Martin shot back. “It _slaughters._ She is nothing like she was when I ran into her in the woods, not now, and I _know_ if you take a second and fit that through your thick skull, you’d recognize that!”

“That’s _not_ the point, Martin—”

“Then what is? I just _don’t_ understand why you’re so _angry—“_

“ _Because!”_

“Because why?”

“Because _I didn’t know!”_ Jon exploded, his arm tense in Martin’s grip. “Because all this time, you could have just—”

Jon cut himself off, chest heaving, his arm dropping where Martin’s fingers went slack. He was caught on the words that had just left Jon’s mouth, running them through his head. He felt on the verge of stomach sick. “Could have just what?” he asked faintly.

Jon just stared at him, his chest heaving in a sigh.

“Could have just _what,_ Jon?” Martin asked, more strongly this time. 

Again, Jon didn’t say anything, just looked at him, shoulders slumping. Martin sucked in a humorless laugh, glancing away. “Could have just _left?”_ He asked, filling it in himself. “What, you thought Melanie was the only thing keeping me here? A-and that stupid padlock, that was just...an added precaution?”

Jon didn’t say anything, not confirming but not _denying_ either, just _looking_ at him, and it was infuriating. “I knew it,” Martin grit out, “I _knew_ it.” He felt angry. He felt hollow. The tape Jon had given him burned a hole into his side, no longer a comfort. He’d thought, at the time, Jon had given it because he actually cared. Martin supposed he might have, in a way. The way someone would care for a particularly useful, irreplaceable tool. 

Martin had almost forgotten _why,_ exactly, he was there, and what his being there meant. 

“Martin,” Jon sighed. “I...I just...I know it wasn’t exactly your choice. To end up here. A-and lately, you’ve been distant, I’ve seen you looking out like you’re missing something and I know—” Jon cut off, glancing down between them. “Well, you mentioned your mother, before,” Jon said, and Martin stiffened, his heartbeat suddenly roaring in his ears as Jon went on, “I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to just be cut off from someone like that...”

Martin couldn’t quite hear the rest over the pounding of his heart. He hadn’t really let himself think about it. Didn’t want to. He’d been so sure she’d be glad he was gone. But what if...?

Christ, what kind of son was he, to willfully forget about a terminally ill mother? She wasn’t...she wasn’t really herself when she said those things, as much as they stung. Right? He...he should have been there for her, what if she had already—

Martin closed his eyes, trying to banish the thought, trying to banish _all_ of them because they hurt too badly, and Jon was still talking, still murmuring softly and Martin felt Jon’s hand reach out and his fingers brush his—

He jerked back, struggling to breathe as it felt like his throat was closing up. “Don’t,” he said. Then, bitterly, because he wanted this conversation to _stop,_ “If you’re so worried that I’m going to run away, you could always just force me to stay. With a locked room or a word.”

Jon flinched at that, and Martin felt utterly no satisfaction in it. He felt worse, like a part of him was slowly carving it’s way out of his chest. 

But it felt like something ripped away from him entirely when Jon said, hollowly, “are you going to make me make that choice?”

Martin took a shaky breath, cursing the lump forming in his throat. Something glittered faintly in his periphery, and Martin didn’t want to look at it. He didn’t, but the temptation of it was like the pull of a moth to a flame. The golden thread that hummed between them was there. Was always there, really, just at the edges of Martin’s perception, but now...it looked fainter. He was sure of it. He vividly remembered looking at it and feeling as though he might go blind if he looked too long, but now...it didn’t quite have the same shine to it. It looked dimmer.

Had it been fading before? Martin couldn’t remember, couldn’t recall the last time he had looked. He wished he hadn’t now. 

It felt a little hard to breathe. “No,” he heard himself say, faintly. “I’m not.” He took another breath, closing his eyes for a moment, waiting until that mocking gold was no longer flooding the backs of his eyelids. When he opened them, the thread was hidden away again, and Martin thought he’d be happy if he never saw it again. He met Jon’s eyes. “Maybe,” he said, more strongly, now, around that awful lump in his throat that threatened to choke him, “it would do us both good to remember why I’m here. Because the only reason I am listening to statement after statement every day is to turn the world back. That’s the reason I’m here. If there’s even a chance, I am _not_ going to walk away from that. It’s bigger than me, and it’s bigger than you. So you can rest assured now. I’m not running. So,” Martin said, digging the blank tape out of his pocket, and holding it out to an eerily still Jon, “you can take this back.” 

It took a moment for Jon to move at all, to blink away from his stare set on Martin’s face. The moment his fingers closed around the tape, Martin dropped his hand, stepping away. “I’m going back outside,” he said flatly. “Watch me if you need to. I don’t care.”

He turned away before Jon could say anything, making for the doors. Silence stretched behind him, and he wanted to escape it before it could swallow him whole. He managed to make it a few steps outside before he felt his face crumple and his breath hitch. 

He dropped to a crouch, his elbows digging into his thighs and his face buried in his hands. He took a few shaky breaths, trying to school his expression, keep the tears from pricking the backs of his eyes. The cool blow of the wind helped a bit, at settling the awful ache that threatened to overwhelm him. 

When he looked up, sniffing, and wiping his sleeves over his eyes, he automatically scanned the treeline. 

Melanie was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

It was nice, to finally have almost full mobility in his hand again. His fingers weren’t quite as quick or precise as they used to be, and there was the beginnings of an ugly scar on his palm, but his hand, for the most part, worked again. It meant that he could knead the dough he was working with a ferocity that would likely lead to it being far too dense and dry when it was baked, but Martin couldn’t bring himself to care much about that, in the moment. 

It felt good to push his frustrations into the movements, kept him from staying too long in his own muddled thoughts. He’d always liked cooking and baking for that exact reason. Nothing to worry about but what you were making. It was just that every time he thought, maybe, it was time to pause and let the dough rise a bit, he’d think about Jon.

So he kept going. And going. At this rate, he’d have to toss the dough, it’d hardly make anything edible anyway. That hadn’t really been the point of this, though.

“What’d that dough do to you, then?” Basira’s voice came from behind him. 

“Really not in the mood, Basira,” Martin answered, giving the dough a good slap against the table.

Basira was quiet for a moment. “You want to talk about it?” she asked, maintaining her unflappable calm.

“No,” Martin said shortly.

“Good,” Basira replied. The answer surprised him to the point of giving her a glance over his shoulder. She shrugged where she leaned against the island. “I’m shit at advice.”

Martin huffed what was almost a laugh, giving the dough one more turn. “Excellent. I don’t want any.”

She peered over his shoulder. “I hope you’re not planning on baking that, it’s practically black and blue.”

Martin sighed, pausing and registering the ache in his forearms. “That wasn’t really the point,” he told her tiredly. 

He could feel her watching him out of the corner of his eye, but kept his eyes on the sad bit of dough. When she finally spoke, her words shocked him out of his stupor. “Come on,” she said. “You need a distraction, and Daisy’s waiting.”

He blinked at her, brows furrowing. “What? Wait—really?”

She nodded. “Yeah, Martin. I’ve been keeping her up to date about you. She wants to meet you.”

“She—really?” he said again, not having expected anything of the sort.

Basira rolled her eyes and pushed away from the counter, calling behind her, “let’s go, Martin.” The look she sent back could have almost been playful, if Martin wasn’t entirely unsure she was joking about what she said next. “She really doesn’t like waiting.”

Martin quickly scooped the dough and flour into a bin, hurrying after. “Wait, I mean, is there...should I be careful not to do...anything? I mean, how much of the Hunt does she still have in her?”

Basira glanced sideways at him as they made their way to the door. “Are you afraid?”

“Should I be?” Martin asked her.

“No,” Basira said firmly. “Best not be.”

Martin swallowed, taking a breath as Basira opened one of the great double doors. “Right,” he said.

“Ready?” Basira asked, quirking a brow.

Martin nodded, and when Basira opened the door wider for him to step through, Martin saw a wolf waiting beyond the bars of the gate. 

The wolf watched their approach with sharp eyes, watching him, Martin noted, with a greater intensity than Basira. Still it made no aggressive moments, remaining perfectly still as they came closer. When they were a few yards away, Basira motioned for him to hang back. Martin complied easily, watching with no small amount of curiosity as Basira approached the fence. Basira crouched down in front of the wolf, and Martin watched as the wolf took a few visible, large breaths, the gusts appearing in the air before its nose. 

And, as Martin watched, the wolf’s body shivered and changed. Like static thrumming before his eyes, it almost hurt to directly look at. But the fur was receding, the snout collapsing inward, with the sound of cracking bone and heavy huffs of breath. It looked painful, but practised, and almost as soon as the change had begun, it stopped.

And there was a woman, Daisy, settling to sit cross legged where the wolf had been. Her grey eyes watched him, set in an angular face with jutting cheekbones and a sharp jaw. “So,” her voice came a little hoarse, accented, teeth a little too sharp where they flashed when she spoke, “this is the infamous Martin Blackwood.”

“I’d hardly say I’m infamous,” he said, where he stood a ways away.

Daisy grinned a bit like an animal baring its teeth, and Basira huffed a breath of a laugh, waving him over. He followed slowly, settling in the grass beside Basira. Daisy’s eyes followed the motion, missing no flicker of movement. 

Martin smiled at her. “It’s nice to meet you at last, Daisy,” he said earnestly.

She blinked at him, cocking her head. After a moment, she said, a bit stiltedly as if it had been a while since she’d said it before, “it’s nice to meet you too.”

The way Daisy stared at him was intense, flickering a bit over his face as if she saw something there that Martin didn’t. Martin couldn’t help but notice it as Basira filled the silence with talk of the latest book she’d been reading. He fiddled with the tiny flowers sprouting near the edges of the fence, as Basira spoke. Common daisies. Wasn’t that ironic.

After a few minutes, even Basira seemed to notice it. The way Daisy looked like she was looking at... _something._ “Love, I said he was alright,” Basira said softly. 

“What?” Daisy asked distractedly, taking another moment to draw her eyes away. 

“Is something...wrong?” Martin asked her. “I could go, if you’d like.”

Daisy blinked at him, her brow furrowing as she met his eyes. “What? No, it’s just...you have odd blood.”

Martin felt his face crumple in confusion. “I...what?”

Basira snorted. “Love, he probably doesn’t want to hear about his blood—“

“No, I—it’s okay,” Martin assured, waving a hand. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it before,” Daisy said, head tilted and eyes looking over Martin’s face as if she was watching the blood pulsing through capillaries and veins _._ “I mean...not in a long time, at least. It’s...bright. Almost like a glow.”

Martin blinked at her, taking that in. “Oh.”

“Huh,” Basira said, glancing at him.

“‘S nice,” Daisy assured, grinning her bared teeth grin. “Very pretty. Could spot you easily. Like a glowstick.”

Martin snorted a surprised laugh. “Suppose I’ll take that as a compliment then,” he said.

“Good,” Daisy shot back.

He huffed a ghost of a laugh, twisting the daisies in his fingers as Basira began speaking again. He absentmindedly pressed a slit in the stem of one with his fingernail, threading another through it. Ancient muscle memory.

“Hold on,” Daisy murmured, and Martin glanced up to find her gaze narrowed in on his hands. “I almost forgot you could do that with those.”

Martin watched as Daisy plucked a couple of the small flowers from her side of the fence, then looked at him intently. “How’d you do it again?”

Martin glanced at Basira, who was watching them, amused, leaning back on her hands. He glanced back at Daisy, and the grin that spread over his face hurt his cheeks a bit. “Here,” he said, shifting a little closer, holding the small daisy chain out. “Let me show you.”

* * *

The afternoon had been a nice distraction, in the cool weather with Basira and Daisy, who could be a bit terrifying but also a bit lovely at the same time. A strange combination. As soon as Martin was left to his own devices in the estate however, he couldn’t help but dwell on what had happened earlier that day. 

Couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that he hadn’t felt Jon’s eyes on him all afternoon. Perhaps that meant that he believed Martin, that he wasn’t still secretly planning to run off. Perhaps he’d gotten better at hiding when he was watching. Or maybe he didn’t care enough to, anymore. 

Martin didn’t really want to consider any of the possibilities, didn’t want to consider what had him shutting down earlier in the first place, because he hadn’t thought on certain things for a _reason._

So he found himself in the library again, the phonograph glaring back at him. There was one more wax recording left. One more that he hadn’t listened to.

He set it into the phonograph and clicked it into place before he could think too deeply on it. The recording started up, static crackling in the silence. And then Jonah Magnus’ voice was speaking. 

“ _Statement of Hezekiah Wakely, regarding his career as a gravedigger...”_

And Martin realized he knew this statement very well. It had been his first, after all. He listened to Jonah Magnus record it, confusion and dread swirling in his stomach. He listened, until Magnus breathed a sigh and said, _“your most humble servant, Hezekiah Wakely. Statement ends.”_

There was nothing but the sound of paper brushing against paper, and Martin’s own breathing, until within the recording, another, shaky voice sounded.

_“That was horrible.”_

There was an abrupt sound of chair legs scraping against the ground. Magnus’ voice sounded abrupt and tinged with what could have been concern, _“Barnabas? What—it’s the middle of the night, are you...?”_ Magnus was quiet for a moment. When his voice came again, it was more distant, as if he’d moved away from the recorder _“What’s happened?”_

 _“Why were you reading that?”_ Barnabas asked. There was something strange in his tone, a distance that didn’t sound normal.

 _“I...was confirming a theory,”_ Magnus said, sounding reluctant.

There was a shaky laugh. _“About your monsters?”_ Barnabas asked.

A silence. Then, _“do you want to...sit down—”_

 _“Why those letters?”_ Barnabas asked abruptly. _“Why...why did you choose to read that?”_

_“I...it was a gift. From Mordecai.”_

_“It is strange isn’t it,”_ Barnabas was saying, distantly, _“that you run into the heir to one of the most prolific fortunes in London in the middle of nowhere.”_

A tenser silence. _“If you’re here to start another argument, Barnabas, I’m really not—”_

_“I’m not. I’m not, I just...you didn’t feel like it was...important? The—the letters, or...or this man you’d never seen on the train, I just thought...maybe you’d felt something like...”_

_“Like?”_ Magnus pressed. _“Like what?”_

There was an audibly shaky breath. _“I...I need your help. I’ve...I think I’m going mad, or...or maybe it’s worse than that. I’ve been...seeing things. Feelings things that don’t...make sense.”_

There was the sound of footsteps. The rustling of fabric. Then, when Jonah Magnus’ voice spoke, it was with an almost feverish intent, _“tell me.”_

 _“It’s...they’re like these...threads,”_ Barnabas said, centuries away, as Martin hung on his every word with his breath caught in his throat. _“Bright, gold threads that sing for me to follow.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nooooo haha don't fight you're so sexy
> 
> Also Daisy making daisy chains with Martin????? I HAD TO they're too cute
> 
> Lemme know what ya'll think, thoughts, comments, theories, screaming into the void??


	17. The Hidden Strings

_“Bright, gold threads that sing for me to follow.”_

Martin hung on every beat of silence that followed, leaning forward in the armchair with his ear close to the phonograph to ensure he heard every word, every intake of breath. His heartbeat thumped at the front of his ribs, so loud in his ears that it almost drowned out what was said next.

 _“When did this start?”_ Magnus asked, surprisingly seriously. There was no hint of disbelief or ridicule in his tone. 

_“I think...”_ Barnabas’ voice wavered. _“A little while ago. Before you left for Wiltshire.”_

A pause. Then, full of censure, _“Barnabas, why didn’t you tell me_ then—“

 _“I didn’t—I didn’t know, then,”_ Barnabas protested, voice coming a little stronger. _“Not really, I just...you know that publication I found, combing through the library? The one that_ led _you to Wiltshire?”_

A longer pause. _“I’d mentioned Rayner’s work to you a week before that.”_

 _“About the Dark,”_ Barnabas said, a shaky confirmation.

 _“And then you somehow managed to find an obscure publication that led me directly to a Dark artifact,_ ” Magnus finished.

A silence, broken by a slow, quivering intake of breath. _“I didn’t think anything of it, then. I didn’t see anything, it was just...a feeling,”_ Barnabas said softly. _“So inconspicuous I thought it might have just been...intuition. Or fate. It was a quiet afternoon, you were buried in your work, and I...I always liked the library. You know that. Liked to trail a finger across the books’ spines and stop when it suited me, pull whatever it was out, and read until the words blurred. That day, I trailed a finger over those spines, but...this time it was like..._ something _wanted me to keep going. A feeling around my ribs, tugging. A gentle nudge, telling me I wasn’t quite there yet, just a bit further...”_

 _“And then you found it?”_ Magnus asked.

 _“And then I found it,”_ Barnabas echoed. _“And the feeling stopped.”_

 _“And then?”_ Magnus pressed.

_“Then, I began to...see things. These flashes of light at the corner of my eye. And...between people. Like bridges between them, like string. Between us, too.”_

_“Between_ us? _”_ Magnus asked, voice raising a little. 

_“Yes,”_ Barnabas answered, slightly distant. _“The strings...hum. A-at imperceptibly different frequencies, I’m certain—every time it’s...the slightest bit different. I’ve only managed to focus on one at a time, but I do wonder...I have wondered what it might sound like all at once. Like a horrible cacophony, o-or maybe...maybe like a thousand string orchestras in perfect harmony.”_

There was the longest silence of all. Then, Magnus’ voice, something strange in his tone that Martin couldn’t place: _“I thought you said you wanted help.”_

 _“I—I do, I...I’m worried, I don’t...”_ An intake of breath. “ _I know I’ve never been invested in your work. It’s not because I don’t care, it—it’s because it...it frightens me. And I’m sorry for that,”_ Barnabas admitted shakily. _“But...that day you came back from Wiltshire, that day we...fought...I started following the threads. Tracing them, seeing where they led. So many of them led back here,”_ he said. _“And then, so many others shivered away, and they all ached for me to follow. But the ones I did follow...in tracing their path, I had the most peculiar feeling, like...like I was always meant for it. For those exact steps, for that exact thread. It was a feeling out of time, a...a fixed point, after I’d started walking. And I wondered, maybe we’re all just...following these paths laid out for us. It’s just...most of us can’t see them, or feel them, or know they’re there. But they are.”_

A shivering intake of breath. _“I know...you always warned me not to touch the artifacts you bring back,” Barnabas murmured. “A-and objectively I knew these...threads...they might be awful. Full of horrors in their own way, but. They didn’t feel like they would hurt me. They_ sang _for me, Jonah.”_

 _“Barnabas,”_ Magnus’ voice came, low and warning. 

_“I know,”_ Barnabas said, an echo of a smile in his voice that reminded Martin of the first time he’d heard that voice, light and unburdened. _“I know, I shouldn’t have. But...I reached out to touch one.”_

A sigh, low and slow. _“And?”_ Magnus asked. Then, more softly, _“What was it like?”_

 _“It was...painful,”_ Barnabas said, cradling the word as if it were fragile. _“Like achingly old memories and vibrant new ones—ones that couldn’t quite be called memory yet—were shoved at me all at once. Images and feelings that I didn’t have the context to understand, pressing against the inside of my skull like needles, filling me w-with_ lives _I’ve never lived and sensations that weren’t mine. A-and I thought...if that’s what_ one _thread felt like, imagine the whole of them, all at once. And I couldn’t help but think...what if it all is just...an unintelligible cacophony of noise and blinding light, a-and what if it just keeps building up around me and in my head until my ears and eyes bleed and I can’t perceive anything else ever again?”_ Another shaky breath. _“And I couldn’t stand that thought, so I came here.”_

There was a silence, then the sound of measured, approaching footsteps. Magnus’ voice sounded closer to the recorder, strangely distant. _“I hit the button to stop the recording when I heard you. You saw me hit it. Didn’t you?”_

 _“What?”_ Came Barnabas’ voice, utterly baffled. _“I—I don’t...maybe? I wasn’t really—I didn’t really notice. What does that have to do with anything?”_

Magnus was silent for long enough that it sent a chill down Martin’s spine. _“It doesn’t matter,”_ Magnus eventually said, his voice suddenly low and warm like molasses. _“I’m glad you told me, Barnabas. You don’t deserve to suffer alone.”_

_“Do you...do you think it sounds like...is this something you’ve heard of?” A pause. Then, a shaky, “Do you know what’s happening to me?”_

There was another pause before Magnus spoke, broken only by the sound of footsteps drawing away from the recorder. Martin could imagine Magnus approaching Barnabas. He couldn’t understand why the image sent a feeling of dread crawling through his stomach. 

There was the sound of fabric rustling. After another pause, one that felt almost a touch too long, Magnus said, _“I’m sorry, darling. I’ve never come across something like this.”_

 _“Oh,”_ Barnabas said hollowly. _“I—“ The sound of a humorless laugh, more of a sob than anything. “I guess there’s only one other answer, isn’t there.”_

 _“I’ll look into it,”_ Magnus said, voice soft. Martin couldn’t help but fixate on the drastic change in tone—clinical curiosity to syrupy assurances. For some reason, it made his skin crawl. _“You’ll...let me know, if it gets worse?”_

There was no audible reply. Perhaps Barnabas nodded. Perhaps he didn’t say anything in reply. There was the sound of rustling fabric, and then the phonograph clicked to a stop.

Martin stared at the machine in disbelief for a beat, then scrambled out of his chair. “That can’t be it,” he murmured to himself, opening the compartment and inspecting the cylinder. Sure enough, the needle had stopped where the minute grooves did. Martin blew out a slow, shaky sigh.

This had been the last cylinder. There weren’t any more. And yet, he just had more questions than answers, and a lingering sense that the answers were _just_ in front of him, dangling there, but he couldn’t make them out. 

Barnabas had been seeing the same threads Martin had. That couldn’t have been a coincidence—not when the threads themselves led him to those wax recordings, hidden away. And _why_ had they been hidden? They had surely been...intimate, but was there another reason? 

Nervous agitation thrummed under his skin, making it impossible to stand still. He paced, frantic thoughts running rampant in his head. So many similarities. Past and present coinciding. He thought of the Hezekiah Wakeley statement, his first, the one that had so badly affected him. The one in the wax recording, read by Jonah Magnus and witnessed by Barnabas. 

He thought of what Jon said, when Martin had lurched away from the table as soon as he’d finished reading. _That’s not supposed to happen the first time._

He thought of his own conversation with Jon, when he’d told him everything he’d been seeing, feeling, and how eerily it paralleled what occurred nearly two centuries ago.

He thought about golden threads and lonely dreams that didn’t quite feel like his, and yet still felt so, achingly familiar. 

He felt like he was teetering on the cusp of something, but still unable to see the whole of it. 

Martin sighed again, raking fingers through his hair and pressing his hand against a building headache. “I don’t understand,” he murmured, to the empty, echoing library. “There has to be more, I—there has to be more. Please, I need...” He sighed again, screwing his eyes shut and picturing gold. Nowadays, that was more than enough to see...something. A thread, or two, or several, that shimmered and sang for him to follow. “Please, I need help.”

When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t met with strings of gold, but rather a flickering, humanoid figure. Martin nearly tripped over his feet jerking back in shock.

His heartbeat slowly began to settle when he realized whatever, or whoever, it was wasn’t making any threatening movement. They just...stood there, as if staring at him. Their form flickered, shimmering gold like the threads, but Martin couldn’t make out any distinctive features. They were a silhouette of light, any identifier but their outline blown out by the brightness. 

They looked exactly as they had from when they’d appeared, in an abrupt flash, in the kitchen, so many weeks ago.

Martin swallowed around the sudden dryness of his throat, straightening from the cringed position he’d been shocked into. He took a shaky breath. “Who...are you?”

The figure didn’t reply, didn’t move. The only motion visible was the light of their form, flickering ever so slightly. 

“Barnabas?” Martin tried hesitantly.

There was no visible response for a moment, but after a few seconds, the figure slowly and smoothly cocked their head. Before Martin could ask anything else, the figure turned and began to walk, feet almost not touching the ground at all. Martin stared after, at an utter loss for words. 

The figure paused, halfway to the library doors, and looked back at him. 

“Oh,” Martin gasped out, a little breathless. “You—you want me to...?” He gestured at the door. 

The figure didn’t say anything, or move, but when Martin took a tentative step towards them, they turned and began walking again.

Martin took another shaky breath, trying to settle himself. “O...kay. Okay, this is...fine,” he murmured to himself, as he hesitantly followed. “This is fine.”

He kept what he felt was a safe distance between them. The figure did not turn around again, merely led him down hallways without an ounce of hesitation, as if they’d walked them hundreds of times before. 

The path they took suddenly became eerily familiar. Martin followed, trying to recall why these turns they took nagged at his memory. He’d explored the estate completely by now, so he supposed it could have just been that. But this particular path...

It was when the figure began to slow, and then stopped entirely in front of a door that it hit him. It was a door that Martin remembered, ornate, opulent, but not too large. 

Weeks ago, what felt like ages ago now, when he’d been plagued by dreams of the Lonely...he’d woken up and followed someone. Someone he’d thought had been Tim or Basira holding a lantern and staying just out of sight. He’d followed them right to this door, tried the handle, and found it locked. 

Martin realized, now, with this golden figure in front of him, who he’d really been following that night. Martin watched as the figure took a step toward the door, their hand reaching out. He watched as they flickered, like someone blowing on a flame. Their hand extended toward the doorknob, but before they could reach it, they winked out of existence, as if never there at all. 

Martin took a step closer, hand outstretching automatically as if he could pull them back. There was no further movement. No more winking of light. He blinked at the spot they’d just occupied, confused by the flood of...sadness that filled him. After a moment, he turned his attention to the door. 

He’d been led to this door before. 

Slowly, he reached for the doorknob, as the figure had. He closed his hand around the cool metal, and turned it. 

It gave way slightly, but caught on an internal lock. Martin sighed, petulantly trying a few more times before drawing back. 

He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, trying to shake the somber mood that had taken him over. 

Sasha turned the corner of the hallway, giving him a flash of a tired smile and a curious glance. “Martin,” she greeted. “What are you doing up here?”

He stifled another sigh, glancing at the door. “Just wandering,” he murmured. “Do you...I don’t suppose we have the key to this door?” he asked, gesturing to it.

Sasha frowned. “Why?”

“I’m just wondering what’s in there,” Martin said. “If there’s anything important, anything that could...help.”

Sasha bit her lip, side-eying the door. “Unfortunately, we have no idea where the key might be. Haven’t been able to open it in years.”

“Oh,” Martin said, disappointment swirling in his stomach.

“Probably wouldn’t be anything too interesting, anyway,” she told him, passing by. “Maybe the odd secret, but mostly just paperwork.”

Martin frowned at the odd comment, calling after her, “what was the room for?”

“Used to be Elias’ office,” she answered, stopping before turning the corner.

Martin blinked, glancing back at the door. He only knew as much about Elias Bouchard as Jon and the others had shared, but he’d gathered he hadn’t been a particularly pleasant man. 

Why would he be led there? 

“Hm.”

“That all you needed, Martin?” Sasha asked, head tilted. “It’s, um,” her gaze dropped to the ground as she finished, “it’s almost sundown.”

“Oh!” Martin glanced out the windows at the end of the hall, and sure enough, the sun was well on its way to sinking. “Yes,” he assured her, “I’m fine, don’t let me keep you. Do...do you need anything?”

Sasha’s smile was bittersweet. “No thanks, Martin. Though maybe...it’d probably be best not to be too close by, once the sun goes down. The NotThem...” Sasha’s throat worked, up and down. “It knows what I know, and it can be particularly cruel.” She took a breath, meeting his eyes. “Best not to hear anything you don’t need to,” she said. 

Martin nodded, that somber feeling returning for a far different reason. “Course,” he said softly. 

“Right,” Sasha said. She tried for a smile again. “I’ll, um...see you in the morning then?”

“Sure,” Martin told her, smiling back. “Oolong or darjeeling?”

She hummed, considering. “I think something light. But definitely not floral. Do we still have the gunpowder tea?”

“We should. Unless someone’s been steeping in secret.”

Sasha huffed a laugh, her smile brighter. “Save me a pot, then.”

Martin gave her a salute in answer, watching as she grinned and finally turned the corner. When she was out of sight, the smile slowly slipped off his face. He looked at the fading sunlight. It felt like it had been getting darker far earlier than usual. The days dwindling away. Was that the Stranger too? Or just his imagination? 

He glanced at the door to Elias’ office one last time, wishing he could bowl the door down. Wishing he knew what lay beyond. 

Wishing he had the answers he didn’t.

* * *

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Martin asked distantly, clapping the dirt from his gloves.

The sunlight left the greenhouse pleasantly warm, and it helped to chase darker thoughts away. But Martin’s thoughts kept drifting back to the golden figure and the door when the quiet settled in too long.

Tim let out a snort by the tomato plants. “Listen,” he said, shifting to settle against the wall, “I know we live in the Haunted Mansion, Martin, but I’ve yet to see a ghost.”

“Really?” Martin asked, dubious. He settled against the geraniums, and those pink, red, and white flowers he had yet to find a name for. “You’ve not come across a single statement with a ghost?”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Martin, I believe in my fair share of spooky things,” Tim assured, grinning. “But _specifically_ a ghost, and not a manifestation of a spooky fear god?” He glanced up at the ceiling, considering. “No, can’t say anything jumps out.”

Martin frowned, studying the grooves in his gloves as he thought out loud. “Say ghosts did exist.”

“Sure.”

 _“Tim,”_ Martin sighed, shooting him a look that only had that grin widening. “Just humor me. If ghosts exist, do you think they’d be...associated with a specific fear? O-or would they be something of their own?”

Tim hummed. “Dunno. Suppose it would depend on what kind of ghost we’re talking about. Like...does it remember it was a person? Does it have all their memories and float sadly over their loved ones? _Or_ is it just...an echo?”

“An echo,” Martin settled on, for a moment. “Say it was...an echo.”

Tim hummed again, leaning back against the wall. “Well, the End would certainly make sense. But the End’s more like...a void. If you’re not an avatar of it, you don’t escape it, and I wouldn’t call End avatars ghosts.” Tim shrugged, plucking a leaf off a bush and turning it over in his hands. “Tell you what it _wouldn’t_ be though. The Lonely.”

Martin blinked, looking up at him curiously. “Why?”

“Well,” Tim said, eyebrows raising, “even if this ghost isn’t all there—even if it’s just an echo...what’s a ghost but memory, right? A shade of what a person used to be. And the Lonely...the Lonely’s like a vacuum. Takes away your memory and sense of self ‘til you’re just left with...a vague sense that you’ve lost _something,_ but you’ve got no idea what it is.”

“That sounds horrible,” Martin murmured. 

Tim sighed explosively. “Yeah. Lonely’s a bitch.” He glanced at Martin, and more seriously asked, “how are you dreams, then?”

“They’re...better,” Martin said, pulling at the ends of his gloves. “Better since I’ve started sleeping in the Archive. I-I do still have nightmares,” he admitted, “occasionally. Of...some of the statements. Of Prentis, or Helen. But no more of the Lonely.”

Tim nodded. “That’s good. Sounded like they weren’t any fun.”

Martin blew out a breath. “They weren’t. I still don’t know what they were all about.”

“You know,” Tim said, after a moment, his voice uncharacteristically tentative, “the fears that...affect us the most are the ones we’re most...susceptible to, I suppose you could say.”

There was a kind of leading, inherent question in his voice, and Martin caught on quickly. “Are you saying you think I’m lonely?” he asked tiredly.

“I’m saying we all fear certain things more than other things,” Tim said, not unkindly. He tilted his head. “Though, there is someone uncharacteristically more lonely around here than usual.”

Tim’s tone had taken on a teasing quality that was far more like what Martin was used to. Martin narrowed his eyes at him, and said his name warningly.

“I’m just saying,” Tim said, throwing his palms up. “He’s been far more moody and brooding than usual.”

“And that’s my fault, then?” Martin asked, ignoring the way his heart ached at the thought.

Tim mumbled something that sounded like “it’s certainly not any of ours.”

Martin grit his teeth and returned his attention to the geraniums, raking through the topsoil with perhaps more force than was necessary.

Tim blew out a breath. “Look, all I’m saying is that you two should talk. It seems like you maybe had a...miscommunication, or—“

“On the contrary,” Martin interrupted, “I think we made things rather clear.”

Tim stifled what sounded like another put upon sigh. “You can’t ignore each other forever, for _all_ our sakes. It’s _bad—_ I mean, last night you didn’t say goodnight to him and he looked like he’d been _kicked,_ and then he got all snappy—”

“Tim,” Martin sighed, and there must have been something damning in his tone because Tim went instantly quiet. “I just...I just need time, alright?”

“Okay,” Tim responded, uncharacteristically softly. “Just...I mean, you _know_ he cares about you, right?”

Martin sighed. He couldn’t help but think of flickering threads and padlocked doors. “Sure,” he said, though judging by Tim’s stare lingering, he wasn’t sure how convincing it sounded.

* * *

Martin stared at Jon’s desk in the Archive. Sasha’s voice droned from the recording room, but other than that constant background noise, the Archive was quiet. 

There was a cassette player on the desk, a tape visible inside. That wasn’t what had caught Martin’s eye though. 

No, what had caught his eye was the sizeable spider perched right on top. And he didn’t think it was his imagination that the spider was looking right back at him, with six, gleaming black eyes. 

Slowly, the spider moved, crawling down the leg of the table, crossing the floor between them. He supposed it would have been a natural reaction to flinch, when the spider reached his shoe and began crawling up, inching closer toward him. He didn’t. In fact, he felt strangely...calm. Certain that it wasn’t, in any way, there to harm him. 

He supposed it had always been telling, that he’d never been afraid of spiders.

It slowly walked down his arm, and perched on the back of his hand. The spider turned around, as if looking at him expectantly. Martin watched it, eyebrows raised. Experimentally, he raised his arm slightly, and spread out his fingers. The spider moved then, climbing down his index finger and steadily winding around it. Once, twice, three times. After the third pass, Martin felt it. The nearly imperceptible, thin bit of web wrapped around his finger. That, when Martin shifted, gleamed gold in the light. 

The spider, seemingly finished with its work, made its way back to the back of Martin’s hand. Again, it seemed expectant. 

Martin moved slowly, still processing that this was indeed happening. He brought his other hand over so the spider could crawl into his palm. It did so, with some enthusiasm, and when Martin lowered his hand to the floor, the spider scuttled away. 

Distantly, and with no small amount of hysteria, Martin thought it was a bit rude it didn’t say goodbye.

He turned his attention to the hair-thin spider’s thread around his finger. The one that trailed back to the tape waiting in the cassette player on Jon’s desk.

He supposed he could have ignored it. Walked away then and there. But he was in far too deep now, and thought, perhaps, he’d find his answers here. This thread, like all the others, sang for him to follow. So he did.

It was a statement about a psychological study that went very wrong, with a very familiar name. 

Annabelle Cane. 

* * *

_He was dreaming. He knew this. He would come to that conclusion several times while he was there, but the realization didn’t seem quite so important. It would come to him, then drift away like smoke. Then, it would come again, while he sat there, on that uncomfortable plastic chair._

_Sounds of the hospital flooded around him. Beeps of machinery and the incessant ringing of the phones and the hurried footsteps of tired doctors. The smell of antiseptic flooded his nose._

_His mother lay—stable, the doctors had assured him, well-meaning—in a room a few doors down the hall._

_Martin had hated it in that room. Hated the smell of convalescence and disease. Hated the fluorescents that made harsh the darkening hollows of his mother’s face. Hated the mindless reassurances of the doctors and nurses._

_It wasn’t much better in the lobby, with it’s trickle of coughing, sneezing occupants. But the air felt less thick, less cloying, and he didn’t have to look at his mother when she occasionally opened her foggy eyes, still somehow icy as she lay wasting away._

_It had been a few hours since she’d had the energy to spit at him, but she conveyed her disdain with a look easily enough._

Confusion is a common symptom, _the doctors had assured, with the blissful certainty that came with never having known her._

_Martin bent over his knees, pressing his face into his hands, trying to will away the creeping fatigue. It seemed this would be another night he’d spend in one of the hospital guest rooms. There would be no concrete news about his mother’s prognosis for a while, and the hospital staff was already beginning the process of boarding up for the night._

_The thought of staying there made his skin crawl, but...what kind of son would he be if he just left her?  
_

_Perhaps, paradoxically, a son that she’d like better._

_“Is this seat taken?” a smooth, velvety voice asked._

_Martin looked up, blinking, to see a woman dressed in startlingly bright white, a contrast to her glowing brown skin. She wore a brimmed hat, tilted with a trailing veil nearly covering her right eye, but Martin could see both twinkling at him, full of the small smile on her purple painted lips._

_“I...no, it’s not,” he gestured at it, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose when the headache pulsed._

_She sat artfully around the bunches of her dress, white and lacy. Martin could feel her glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He didn’t say anything, every moment certain she’d stop in the next, and every moment being proven wrong. “You seem sad,” she said, before he could think to say anything._

_He blinked at her, startled. “I...I-I’m not. I’m...fine.”_

_She tilted her head, merely looking at him. “Your mother causes you pain,” she said softly. “Makes you feel alone, even when she’s in the room.”_

_A chill ran down his spine. “What—how did you—“_

_“I’m one of the nurses,” she told him calmly, a weighty surety in her voice. “I’ve been helping with her. Don’t you remember?”_

_Martin frowned, thinking it over. The more he studied her face, her words echoing in his head, the more it made sense. Of course she was a nurse, why hadn’t he remembered? Of course she had helped with his mother. “I...no, I...I do. Sorry, I’m,” he pressed his palm against his forehead, staving off the tension headache. “I’m a little out of sorts today.”_

_“Martin,” she said softly. “Isn’t it?”_

_He nodded tiredly, giving her his best approximation of a polite smile. “Yes. A-and you?”_

_Her closed lipped smile widened a fraction. “You can call me Annabelle.”_

_“Pleasure,” he managed. Then, when the silence stretched between them, he sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll be a great conversation partner at the moment.”_

_She tilted her head at him, eyes slowly moving over his face. “Martin,” she said, “you do so...remind me of someone.”_

_He blinked at her, baffled by the topic shift. “I...do? Who?”_

_She smiled that strangely disarming smile. “Someone I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting.” Before Martin could consider what on earth that could mean, Annabelle’s gaze was caught by one of the hospital workers boarding up a window near them. “You should go soon,” she said._

_Martin frowned at her. “What? I can’t go. It’s almost sundown, I-I can’t—”_

_Annabelle’s gaze flitted back to his, her amber eyes steady. “Being here pains you,” she said, so simply and blunt that the words seemed sharp. “Doesn’t it.”_

_Martin took a shaky breath. “I...I have to be here, she...she needs me.”_

_“But does she deserve you?” Annabelle asked._

_“I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing,” Martin said back, the words nearly trembling when they left his tongue._

_“You think she’ll see what you’re doing,” Annabelle said, the tone not unkind but the words cutting to Martin’s core, “and love you? That her disdain is the illness?”_

_Martin swallowed, blinking back the tears that pricked at the backs of his eyes. “She doesn’t mean it,” he said, the words he’d so often told himself tasting like acid on his tongue. “The things she says. She’s_ sick _.”_

_“Martin,” Annabelle said, with such calm and gravity Martin couldn’t help but look up at her. She looked back, steady. “Listen to me very carefully. Hope against hope isn’t a godsend. It’s a punishment. And mothers,” she said, emphasizing the word, “should embrace their children. Not hurt them.”_

_Martin took a quivering breath, choking down the lump in his throat. His eyes drifted to the hallway, imagining his mother prone in that room, reeking of sickness and iron. “I’d rather be anywhere than here,” Martin admitted, on an exhale. “But I have to stay.” He glanced at the windows, almost all boarded up now. “Besides,” he added tiredly, “I won’t make it home in time.”_

_Annabelle’s hand perched on his shoulder and when Martin turned to look at her, she leaned in and spoke very clearly, “you’ll make it.”_

_He blinked at her, the words echoing in his head. “I’ll make it,” he repeated distantly.  
_

_When he said it, he was more certain of it. Of course he’d make it. He had time enough. Besides._

_He wanted to be anywhere but there, after all._

_“That’s right,” Annabelle said gently. “Best get a move on.”_

_Martin nodded, jerking up from his seat, but paused when Annabelle’s hand lighted on his arm. “Oh, and Martin? One more thing.” She met his eyes, calm and steady, and Martin felt caught in them, like a fly trapped in amber. “Remember me like a dream,” she said, “won’t you?”_

_Martin blinked, slow and heavy. “What?”_

_“Don’t worry,” she said, smooth like velvet. “We’ll find each other again. When you need it.”_

_“Oh,” Martin said after a moment, blinking. Strangely, her image looked like it was fading even as he looked at her. “I...”_

_“Best go now, Martin,” the empty chair said, softly._

_“O-oh,” he said distantly. He blinked again, shaking his head._

_He looked around, vaguely wondering why he was standing. Hadn’t he been sitting?_

_He registered the dimming light, and swore. When had the sun gotten so low? He raced past the nurse that worked to barricade the swinging double doors, sending an apology back when he knocked a chair over. He needed to get home._

_But it was alright. He had time. He’d make it._

_He didn’t, though. Instead, he crashed through the woods with terror lodged in his throat, until he stumbled upon a crumbling, towering estate, with windows that seemed to look down at him as if living things themselves._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooooooooh
> 
> Well, that IS interesting, isn't it? 
> 
> Mild apologies for the cliffhanger and the lack of Jon, I promise he will be back next chapter and it will be WELL worth the wait. Also, I'm hoping to get the next chapter out next wednesday as usual. BUT life is busy right now, as im currently applying to grad school programs. So. Hoping to get it up wednesday. If it isn't up then, it will be up by the next wednesday, I promise. I won't leave you guys hanging for too long, especially on that note ;)
> 
> In the meantime...thoughts, theories, explosive keysmashes?


	18. The Lurking Lie

Martin had had plenty of nightmares in his life. He wasn’t usually loud upon waking, as bad as they could get sometimes. Years of living in a tiny flat with thin walls and a chronically ill mother had led him to be practiced in waking quietly, even if he had to trap a shout in the vice of his throat. 

So, he didn’t scream upon waking from his dream of the hospital. He wasn’t sure if he even would have, if the instinct hadn’t long been trained out of him. But it seemed, when his eyes opened to the arching ceilings of the Archive, that his mind had already begun to run through all the dream’s awful implications, because he woke and found he was already having trouble breathing. 

The sheets felt too hot and too tight around him, constricting. Images of insects thrashing in spiders’ webs floated through his mind. He struggled mindlessly against the fabric, breaths coming too short and thin for his lungs. The world spun, his panic grew, nausea swirled in his stomach.

_You do so remind me of someone._

_You’ll make it._

_Best get a move on._

“Woah, woah, hey,” he heard at his right. Something reached out and touched his arm, and in his sleep-addled panic, Martin toppled off the cot. The short fall to the ground still managed to rattle him unpleasantly. He landed in a pool of moonlight from the window, aching on the hardwood floor. He lay there for a moment, gasping for air as a worried face and fluttering marionette hands appeared in his field of vision. 

“Jesus, Martin,” he heard Tim say, distantly. Tim tentatively placed his hand on Martin’s shoulder again, green eyes wide. “You alright?”

Martin swallowed around the lump in his throat, eyes locked on the ceiling beams. He didn’t feel alright. Annabelle’s face, with her indulgent, eerily gentle smile was plastered on the backs of his eyelids. He felt sick, and felt even more so when he chanced a glance at Tim’s face, creased in concern.

Tim hated the Web—worse, _feared_ it. And if...if Martin had been...? If he was... 

What would Tim think?

Tim must have read something of the distress on Martin’s face, because he straightened up. “Hold on, I’m waking up Jon.”

Martin blinked, turning his head to glance at the desks at the center of the room, just visible from behind the cot. Jon was slumped over his desk, head pillowed on folded arms, a pen still held loosely between his index and middle fingers. Martin’s heart ached like a bruise, the breath leaving his lungs all at once. What would _Jon_ think?

Jon’s voice from days ago rang in his head, clipped and hurt. _You lied to my_ face.

“No,” Martin gasped out, stopping Tim in his tracks. Martin pressed his hands over his eyes, as if he could rub away the afterimages of his dream. “No, I’m fine. It was...it was just a nightmare.”

“Martin...” Tim began dubiously.

“I’m fine,” Martin said, leveraging himself to sit up. His ribs ached from the fall. “Don’t...don’t wake him.”

“Martin—”

“I’m fine,” Martin said, more harsh than he’d meant it. Tim didn’t look very affected by the sharp tone, but his frown deepened, eyes narrowed in thought and scanning Martin’s face. Martin didn’t know if he could hold up to scrutiny right then. He thought, once he’d really had a chance to think things over, he might shatter into pieces. Martin took a quivering breath and broke eye contact, using a grip on the cot to get himself to his feet. “I just...I need some air. I’ll be back in a few, alright?”

Tim was watching him, concern clear on his face, and it was too much. Martin turned away toward the Archive doors, slipping through them quietly. The hall was dark and quiet. 

_Remember me like a dream, won’t you?_

Martin shook his head sharply, forcing himself to take a slow breath when that wave of panic threatened to send him under again. 

It hadn’t just been a dream. It’d had the clarity of a memory, while he was there. A script to it, a cruel inside joke. He could almost picture Annabelle pointing it out. _We’ve done this before, you know,_ she might’ve crooned.

Now, in the dim light of the hall, he remembered the encounter with the vague, fuzziness that cloaked all nightmares after waking. As if her words, _remember me like a dream,_ still had their pull over him. As if, if he didn’t actively remember, he might forget all over again. 

So, he cast his thoughts back to that night. That night that he’d never wanted to think about, because lingering on his mother at all was like pressing at a wound just barely covered over. Annabelle couldn’t have found a better place to hide. 

Hazily, he could recall the creak of the chair to his left as she sat. The faint smell of incense and honey. The brush of the fabric of her dress as she leaned closer to him and the startling white flash of sharp canines. The gentle roll of her voice, like a sickly sweet promise.

It had been real. It had been.

“Oh, god,” he breathed out, into the unforgiving silence. His fingers dug into the holes of his sweater as he wrapped his arms around himself. 

She’d sent him there. Purposefully, with that knowing smile. Why? To help? Or...to hurt?

Something else struck him, a distant memory that had seemed so strange at the time, an offhand comment that had hit an uneasy nerve, even as he didn’t understand what it had meant. Now, though, it slipped back into his thoughts with renewed context. 

_I can see why she chose you._

He went cold. Began stumbling forward before he’d really gotten it into his head to move. He headed back to his old room, at first mindlessly, then with increasing purpose, terror mingling with hot anger that boiled in his blood.

Helen had always seemed to like visiting him there. 

He blew through the door and shut it behind him, taking in the sprawling bed and the empty walls with a cursory glance. “Helen!” he called, scanning the walls with narrowed eyes for any hint of a bright, yellow door. There was no movement in the room in response. “Helen, I _know_ you’re there,” he grit out. “You listen, and you watch. Isn’t that what you said?”

Martin waited, spinning to make sure her entrance wouldn’t catch him off guard. After another minute, he could feel the frustration and anger heat his face. “What, decided to be _shy?”_

“Certainly not,” Martin heard her trill, after the creaking sound of an opening door.

Martin’s head whipped to look up to see that yellow door open on the ceiling, and Helen peering down at him horizontally, as if gravity were a mere suggestion. He had to shut his eyes, head spinning, when the room distorted and the ceiling bent toward the floor. When he opened them, she was grinning down at him. “You rang, darling?”

The bravado left him a bit when she stood worryingly close, grin sharp and hungry like a shark’s. He exhaled shakily, taking a step back and feeling the bed block his path to retreat. He considered the knife, strapped at his ankle, but didn’t think he’d have the speed to draw it. Martin supposed he’d just have to rely on the hope that Helen wouldn’t risk hurting him. 

“What’s the matter?” Helen crooned. “It seemed like you were eager for a chat.”

Martin grit his teeth, taking a steadying breath. He met her eyes evenly. “You knew,” he said. “You knew the Web sent me here. That Annabelle did. The _first_ time we met. You knew. You said ‘I can see why she chose you. _’_ ”

Helen huffed a great sigh with that curling smile still in place, tilting her head and looking down at him. “Yes, Martin. It’s really about time you had this moment of self-reflection. Though,” she added, before Martin could reply, “I didn’t actually mean her as in Annabelle Cane.”

Martin stared at her blankly. “What?”

“She did play her part,” Helen said, waving a careless hand, “don’t get me wrong. But she’s not who I meant. No, I meant _Her._ ” The word was emphasized with a frightening stretch to the grin. 

Martin swallowed around the dryness of his throat, the click of it ringing in his ears. “Who?” he asked.

The brief pause before Helen spoke was agony. The look in her eyes was bright and cruel, as if she knew the awful swirl of emotions in his stomach. Finally she said, clearly and gleefully, “The _Mother._ ”

“The Mother,” he repeated shakily.

“The Mother of Spiders,” she said, almost dreamily. “We do get on so well with her—the Web is _delightfully_ cryptic. I saw it on you from the moment you walked in. It speaks to how far Jon’s fallen, that he couldn’t see it. The Mother’s touch thrums in you, like spun gold.”

Martin’s breath caught in his throat. 

_Mothers should embrace their children. Not hurt them._

“You—” Martin’s throat closed off abruptly at the rush of panic he felt, his heart beating at his ribs. “You...you said we want the same thing. That we would want the same thing, you said...when we first met.” He forced himself to meet Helen’s fever bright, spiral eyes. “Do you know what the Web wants?” he asked, nearly breathless with the thought of knowing.

Helen’s answering laugh was grating like static, bouncing unnaturally off the walls. “Oh, Martin,” she said, condescending, as if he was a particularly amusing child. “ _No one_ knows exactly what the Web wants. That’s why it’s the _Web._ ” 

“But you said—”

“I know,” she said, a dangerous edge to her smile, “what I said. If you’re asking me to tell you what to do, or what not to do, I’m not going to. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

Martin clenched his jaw around the snap of an answer that threatened to escape him. Helen’s smile widened, as if she knew exactly how much she was getting under his skin. “I’ll tell you what I do know, Martin,” she said, her voice a parody of softness. “There’s a _reason_ it’s you. Your coming here is... _momentous._ And it means that this,” she said, spreading her long hands and considering the room, before her sharp eyes returned to him, “well. It’s all going to come to an end now. One way, or another. You’re going to end it.”

Martin stared at her, the rising anxiety pressing at his chest making it hard to breathe. “What do you mean by ‘end it?’” he asked, his voice coming out much, much calmer than he felt.

Helen’s smile curled and widened. “Why, Martin, darling. That is _entirely_ up to you.”

* * *

It took Martin a few minutes to bring himself to move again, after Helen had taken her leave. She’d left as abruptly as she’d appeared, with no care for his additional, frantic questions he knew would remain unanswered. For now, at least.

He slunk back to the Archive, ignoring Tim’s eyes on him and the pang in his chest when he passed by Jon, slumped in a position that couldn’t have been comfortable and quietly snoring. 

Martin slipped back into the cot, facing the window, ignoring the sharp eyes on his back. The whirl of his thoughts kept him awake. It was perhaps, for the best. The thought of having another dream of Annabelle Cane’s gentle smile was enough to turn his stomach. He watched the light of the stars through the window and the bright glare of the moon, trying to quiet the maelstrom of doubts and worries in his head. 

He was still himself. He was still Martin Blackwood, no matter what anyone said. No matter who sent him where. 

...Wasn’t he?

The thrum of doubt and dread kept even the exhaustion away, and the light of the stars, for once, brought him no comfort. All he could think about was their distance. How, even as he watched them, they were already dead and gone. 

He rose in the morning as soon as it was acceptable to, feeling ancient, feeling haunted. He’d caught sleep in snatches that had been far from restful, filled with gold and untrustworthy smiles. The Archive was empty again, and he was grateful for it. Grateful to be unscrutinized, because now that he knew maybe it would show on his face. The Mother’s touch.

He felt like something awful and dangerous, gilded over with gold.

Martin drifted to the kitchen like a ghost, driven only by the vague rumbling of his stomach and the pull of routine. It was strange, how in the course of one night he could come to feel like such a different person. He’d thought, before, he knew where he fit at the estate, but now...

Now he didn’t even know what he _was._

He startled out of his troubled thoughts when he registered the kitchen was not unoccupied. Jon looked back at him, head twisted and paused in his motion of reaching for a mug from a particularly high cabinet. It might have been a funny sight, to see him stretched out on his tiptoes like that, if Martin was at all in the mood to laugh. Instead, his chest felt tight and his heart ached. 

“Martin,” Jon murmured, turning to face him. His voice was soft, careful, as if Martin’s name was fine china. 

Martin closed his eyes against the surge of feeling that brought. It was fitting. He felt like shattering. 

He took a breath that didn’t shudder as much as he thought it would. “Hi, Jon.”

Jon stared at him, eyes flitting over Martin’s face. Martin watched his hands, nimble, as they twisted against his sleeves. “How—how are you?” Jon asked, stuttering and soft.

Martin’s breath caught in his chest with the sudden, aching swell of fondness. It had been a while since they’d exchanged this many words. His anger at Jon seemed a distant thing now, inconsequential. 

Martin should tell him. He _knew_ he should tell him, about the dream, about the _memory,_ about what Helen said. The truth crowded up at the base of his throat and sat there like a heavy weight. 

Jon was looking at him, fingers twisting in his sleeves, head tilted slightly, the light of his eyes muted and soft in that nearly imperceptible way that Martin had come to look for. 

God, he didn’t want to lose that, the way that Jon looked at him and spoke in that fond rumble that made Martin think that maybe, _maybe..._

He had told Jon, so long ago, that he had never met Annabelle Cane. It had been one of the first things that had spurred the trust between them, that bloomed bigger and brighter in Martin’s chest with each lingering glance and soft touch and thoughtful gesture. He hadn’t remembered it to be a lie, then. 

How would Jon look at him if he knew? 

“Martin?” Jon asked, voice tinged with concern.

Martin blinked back into the stark reality of the kitchen. “Sorry,” he murmured, giving his head a shake and trying for a small smile. “‘M a bit tired.”

Jon took a breath as if he was about to speak, but before he could get anything out, Sasha strolled into the kitchen. “Oh!” she exclaimed, a grin quirking on her face when she caught sight of them. “Morning you two.”

Jon’s answering—if belated—greeting got Martin moving again. If he kept busy, he wouldn’t have to _think._ He came up to the counter beside Jon and stooped down, opening the cabinet there. “Tea?” he asked, glancing back at Sasha, and then up at Jon.

Jon looked down at him, very still. Martin barely registered Sasha’s distant confirmation. He was close enough to Jon that he could feel the warmth radiating off him, caught the scent of him, linen and paper. Martin could move his hand two inches to the right and tangle his fingers up in Jon’s.

Jon blinked slowly, and then said, achingly soft, “I’d like that. Thank you, Martin.”

Martin swallowed around the lump in his throat, quickly looking away and into the cabinet, blinking against the sudden heat behind his eyes. “I know it’s gunpowder for Sasha, nowadays,” he said, once he managed to get a hold of himself. He thought his voice sounded normal enough. 

“Don’t put me in a box, Martin,” Sasha called from her perch on the table, legs swinging.

Her familiar teasing made breathing easier. Made the act of pretending he wasn’t about to shake apart easier. “You want something else then?” he asked, raising a brow and leaning back to glance at her.

“Well, I didn’t _say_ that—”

“Thought so,” Martin said, turning his attention to the tea and making a show of ignoring Sasha’s mock affront. There was something to be said for going through the motions. He pulled the green teas closer and, swallowing, glanced up at Jon. Jon was still looking at him, head tilted, softness written in every line of his body. _Maybe,_ Martin couldn’t help but think, his head fuzzy with hope, _maybe._ “Do you know what you’d like?” he asked softly.

It took Jon a moment to respond. He blinked, fingers brushing over the counter. “Oh. I, um...I liked w-what you made me. The last time.”

It sent a pang lancing through Martin’s heart, when it took a moment to remember. It had been a few nights ago, before they’d blown up at each other in the foyer. Jon had been hunched over his desk like a gargoyle, pouring over notes, and instead of drifting off Martin could only focus on the tense line of Jon’s back. He’d thought about soothing the angles of Jon’s shoulders, imagined him slumping at the touch, burning like a fire under Martin’s fingertips. 

Instead—because Martin was a coward and couldn’t stop thinking about the state of the thread between them, dimmer than the others—he’d quietly slipped out of the cot and gone to make tea. Assam, steeped just long enough to teeter on bitter, but not quite tumbling over the line. The smallest dash of sugar, and on a whim, a smidgen of honey, because Martin had come to realize Jon had slightly more of a sweet tooth than he was willing to admit. Martin could remember the warm press of the mug in his hands. The look of surprise going soft in Jon’s eyes when Martin got his attention. The lingering brush of Jon’s fingers as he passed the mug over. 

Martin hid his shaky breath away in the cabinet as he leaned into it, reaching for the black teas. “Sure,” he murmured. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, sending a small smile up at Jon when he emerged. “I can make that.”

“Jon?” Sasha called, drawing Jon’s attention away. Martin couldn’t help but notice how the turn of his head seemed reluctant, how Jon’s eyes lingered for as long as possible, like it had been months since he’d seen Martin instead of a few hours. “I wanted to ask you about a statement...”

Martin let their conversation filter into the background as he rose. The familiar motions of making tea helped to steady him. Fill up the kettle. Put it on the burner. Set up the tea pots. Breathe in, breathe out.

The metal gleam of the kettle glinted in the early morning sun, trailing in through the window. The warm, familiar tones of Jon and Sasha’s voices washed over him. The kettle glinted at him, gold. 

Only...that wasn’t right. The kettle was metal and chrome.

Martin’s eyes caught on the hint of a thread that appeared, slowly humming into existence like an extension of the metal, reaching out for him. He lost track of what Jon and Sasha were saying. The humming of the string sounded louder, a note that rang everywhere and nowhere all at once. His hand moved to it without conscious thought, his fingers curling over and through it and he felt...

He felt the warm, dry pass of hands against the kettle’s surface, over years and years. Felt the warmth of hundreds of cups of tea, the curling steam rising in the air. His fingers traced the string, closer to the kettle, as if of their own volition. The humming increased in frequency. As he moved, the kettle whistle started up, a low hiss. 

Gold framed the corners of his vision like the fading edges of a photograph. 

Sasha and Jon’s voices ceased to make sense. “Martin! Are you alright?” came Jon’s voice, agitated.

“Do you need something for that?” Sasha said.

He didn’t answer them. Felt like he was processing at the speed of molasses, like thinking in amber. Why had no one taken the kettle off the heat? It was steaming, practically shrieking now, so loud it was hurting his ears. 

Wincing, Martin took a step back, his hand drawing back along the string. Suddenly it was quiet, apart from the low hum of the string. The kettle was no longer blowing steam. The heat wasn’t even on. He didn’t hear Jon and Sasha. 

...That wasn’t right. He’d put the kettle on. Hadn’t he? It had been shrieking like anything, why...? 

It was dark in the kitchen. Empty, he knew, though Martin couldn’t take his eyes off the kettle, cold and set off the unlit burner. Where had the sunlight gone? Stars from the window winked at him from their distorted reflection on the kettle’s side. 

That wasn’t right. This wasn’t right. 

Moving slowly, as if in a dream, Martin unthinkingly reached for the kettle with the hand that wasn’t in contact with bright, thrumming gold. 

He jerked back with a wordless yell when pain stung his fingers where they’d touched the metal, his other hand pulling away from the golden string he hadn’t realized he was still holding. Daylight once again flooded the kitchen, as he panted, clutching his burned hand. The return of the bright light stung his dilated pupils. The kettle—on the heat once again—was beginning its low hiss. 

“Martin!” Jon exclaimed, in that same tone, flooded with shock and concern. Martin blinked away from the kettle, wide-eyed, to see Jon come up beside him. Gentle fingers tilted his wrist. Jon’s eyes met his, searching his face. “Are you alright?”

Sasha leaned over Jon’s shoulder, concern creasing her brow. “Do you need something for that?” she asked, over the roaring in Martin’s ears. 

The kettle whistled louder and louder on the stove, slowly becoming ear-piercing. 

The panic he’d been struggling to keep at bay flooded back. Martin couldn’t breathe. He opened his mouth but no air entered his lungs. His vision tunneled. Jon’s hands gripped his arms and Martin could distantly hear his voice, but he couldn’t make out what was being said over the booming of his heart in his ears. His legs trembled with it, his knees buckling as he collapsed back against the island and sunk to the ground.

What was happening? What was _happening_ to him? 

Jon’s face appeared in front of him, his eyes wide. Martin struggled to make out a clear image of him, his breaths coming too short and thin to ease the lightheaded spinning the world had taken on. Jon seemed to be saying something, but the sound came distorted as if he was speaking from miles away. Martin fought to focus on Jon’s eyes, but his vision was blurring with the heat of panicked tears behind his own. 

The touch of Jon’s palms against his cheeks brought him back, if only for a moment. Jon was moving his shoulders up and down in an exaggerated motion. Up, down. Up, down. Through the panic, Martin understood the intent. He tried to match his breaths with the movement, forcibly drawing air into his fluttering, useless lungs. Jon’s thumbs brushed against his cheekbones, a grounding motion. 

Slowly, his breaths began to even out. His heartbeat slowed, no longer booming in his ears. Jon’s eyes, wide and worried, came back into focus, though his vision was still blurry with unshed tears. Sasha was crouched at his right, her face crumpled in concern. 

Jon’s hands pulled away from Martin’s face, the ghost of their warmth lingering on his skin. Martin swallowed, dropping his eyes down to his own hands in his lap. He curled his left around his right, studying his reddened fingertips. “Sorry,” he said hoarsely, into the harsh silence. It seemed someone had taken the kettle off the heat eventually. His intake of breath threatened to become a sob when he let it out. He couldn’t take his eyes off his fingertips. “I hate burns,” he breathed. 

Jon’s fingers brushing his cheek, impossibly gentle, got him to look up again. “Martin,” Jon said again, in that tender, aching way. No one had ever said his name like that before.

This time, the sob did escape his throat. “Sorry,” he said again, instinctive. He hated crying in front of people, but it seemed as though there was nothing he could do to stop the hot rush of tears. “I just...” His voice left him, and it was all he could do to manage, “I didn’t have a very good night,” before he couldn’t hold it all back a moment more. 

The tears weren’t really a shock. Not after the weight of what was on his mind. He had a tendency to pack everything away until he couldn’t ignore it anymore. A crack appearing behind a wall and crumbling with the slightest pressure. Fragile, like the shell of an egg. Once crack and it’s all gone. 

No, he was used to this of himself, of burying down feelings until they rose up at him all at once. What he did _not_ expect was the warmth of Jon’s arms, suddenly around him. A palm at his shoulder blade and another behind his head, guiding him close. 

Martin allowed himself one, disbelieving moment, before he sank into the comfort of it. He buried his face in the curve of Jon’s neck, riding out the trembling sobs. Jon smelled of linen and paper, warm like a furnace. They were pressed together so closely Martin could feel the thumping of Jon’s heart and every rise and fall of his chest. 

It couldn’t have been comfortable for him, Martin knew. He was on his knees where Martin’s legs were folded under him. He was leaning forward at a strange angle, and yet Jon made no move at all to pull away. If anything, he pressed Martin closer, a gentle hand running through the curls of his hair. 

Martin’s eyes felt sore as the tears dried away, lids heavy with exhaustion. Jon held him until the trembling was sparser, his hand rubbing slow circles into his back. “‘M sorry,” he mumbled into the warm fabric of the cloak.

Jon’s hand paused in its motion for just a moment, as did the rise of his chest. In the next, it was moving again, his breathing even, though his heart beat fast in his chest. “You don’t have to apologize,” Jon said. Martin could feel the rumble of his voice as he spoke, his voice so very soft. Martin wanted to bury himself in the feeling, to sink into this moment of quiet. Nothing hurt in the warmth of Jon’s arms. “Just...please, tell me what’s happened.”

Martin closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. Jon’s arms held him tighter, and it gave Martin a boost of courage. _Maybe,_ his tired mind crooned, _maybe._

“You told me to tell you,” he murmured, just barely audibly, into the curve of Jon’s shoulder. “If things got any worse.” Jon’s hand went still at his back, and Martin tried to find an anchor in the warm press of his palm between Martin’s shoulder blades. “Well,” Martin said, his voice trembling despite himself. His voice sounded small and the only comfort he found in this confession was the feeling of Jon pressing him even closer. “It’s gotten worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So uh this chapter was actually going to have a lot more in it and uh...it got long. SO what that means is next week, fitting for a nice holiday week, you guys will get, probably THE fluffiest chapter to date, bc Martin needs some cheering up goddammit
> 
> It's gonna be great. ;) 
> 
> What do YOU all think of the implications of this??? Sure seems like webmartin hours up in here huh, wonder what this could possibly lead to


	19. The Feeling of Your Arms Tonight

Martin sat at the table, eyes on the steaming mug of tea before him and studiously avoiding the twin gazes of Sasha and Jon he knew were boring holes into him. It was quiet in the wake of what he’d told them. A shocked, tense kind of quiet that did nothing to make him feel any better for having gotten it all off his chest. Still, he supposed it was a lot to take in. He didn’t know how he’d react if he’d been told the same. 

If he’d been told, effectively, _I think I saw something that hadn’t happened yet._

Or, rather, something that hadn’t happened, all mixed up in things that had. It was still confusing even to him, when he ran back over what’d happened. That golden string, like the kettle’s whole life stretching before him. The way he’d heard Jon and Sasha say things they hadn’t said yet when he’d traced the string closer to the kettle. The way it had gone cold and dark and quiet when he’d moved back along the string, as if he’d stepped straight back into the night before without ever leaving the kitchen. 

It was so very much to take in on it’s own, that he clearly wasn’t entirely normal anymore, and had he _ever_ been? Had he always been meant for this? Pulled along by invisible strings, thinking he’d been making his own choices all along?

And that didn’t even cover Annabelle Cane. Martin had been painfully aware of the way Jon had stiffened when he’d said her name, and had avoided his eyes after that, afraid of what he might see in them. 

Now, he stared at his tea—the tea that Sasha had made instead of him, because he’d been a useless, quivering mess on the floor—and dread pooled in his stomach as the quiet stretched. Taking a sip of it might’ve helped to steady him, but he was afraid of breaking that silence. Afraid of what it might bring. 

When Jon finally spoke, his voice was angry. “This shouldn’t be happening to you.”

Martin couldn’t quite hide the wince he made at that, his fingers twisting in the sleeve of his knit jumper and shoulders rising. 

“Martin,” Jon said, his voice softer but still tinged with an intensity Martin didn’t know what to do with. “Martin, look at me.”

Slowly, Martin drew his eyes up from the table to meet Jon’s. While his shoulders looked tense and Martin could see the whites of his knuckles where he gripped the edge of the table, he didn’t look angry. At least, not at Martin. His eyes were bright and intense, and Martin thought they looked rather captivating as Jon said, “I didn’t mean...This isn’t your fault.”

Still, Martin found himself shaking his head. “If...if I’d remembered sooner—”

“It sounds like the Web didn’t want you to remember,” Sasha said easily, the look in her eyes calm and understanding. 

Martin studied their faces for a moment. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting to see—anger, shock, distrust? But the expressions that looked back at him were ones of clear, quiet concern. The dread that had been weighing him down slowly lifted away, leaving him feeling tired in the wake of it all. “I just...I just wish I knew what the Web wanted from me,” he murmured.

“What do you want?” Jon asked, after a beat of silence.

Martin blinked up at him. “What?”

“What do _you_ want?” he repeated.

“I...I want to help you,” Martin said, hesitantly, but truthfully. 

After a beat, Jon nodded definitively. “Then that’s all that matters.”

Martin frowned at him, immediately incredulous. “But—”

“No buts!” Sasha said, waving an imperious finger. “The Archivist has spoken.”

Jon turned to look at her, the set of his shoulders and the narrowing of his eyes so long-suffering it was almost funny. But Martin was only left reeling by the simplicity of it all. Did what he want really matter in all this? Would the Web _care_ about what he wanted, in all its twisting plans? Helen seemed to think he’d have some vital part in it all, and Martin was terrified of what that might mean. Whether or not he’d have agency in it all, or worse, that he would mess it all up himself, and send the world plunging into darkness and the unknown. 

“Martin,” Jon said, looking at him earnestly again, drawing Martin’s attention back, “The Web delights in making people second guess their choices. It wants the—the paranoia. So, paradoxically, it’s...best not to worry about it.”

Martin stared at him, unease twisting his stomach at the thought of just...ignoring the implications. “That’s easy enough for you to say.”

Jon blew out a breath. “I know. And what you described in the kitchen is...well. I’ve never heard of something like that from the statements we have, but we have so few of the Web anyway that that doesn’t really mean anything in and of itself. But it does seem like the Web has...” he tilted his head, seemingly searching for a word, and then settling, weakly, on “taken an interest in you.”

Martin swallowed, looking back down at his tea. “So what should I do?” he asked shakily.

He caught Jon and Sasha giving each other a look in his periphery. “That depends,” Jon said after a moment, “is...it sounds like you don’t want to be aligned with the Web—?”

“I don’t,” Martin confirmed immediately, looking up at him. “I don’t—I never asked for this.”

Sasha smiled, and not unkindly said, “most people don’t ask for it, Martin. But at some point, you have to decide to take it or try to reject it.”

Martin frowned, shaking his head. How could he want it? He knew...after so long knowing Jon, he knew being aligned with the fears didn’t automatically equate...evil, but the Web was so...sinister. He had no idea what it wanted, how could he want it back? “I don’t want it,” he repeated again, stronger this time. “Is there...is there anything I can do to...stop it?”

Jon tilted his head, considering. “You could try not interacting with the strings. It seems like...that might be what’s making things worse.”

Martin nodded. He supposed that answer made sense, but he didn’t like the part of him that...balked at the idea. The part that didn’t want to stop exploring where those threads led him. He tried to shake the thoughts away, but doing so just left his head feeling tired and leaden. He stood up. “I think...I think I want some time to think. I need to—to take a walk, or...something.”

Jon nodded as well, standing up out of his seat. “Of course. Do you...want company?”

He supposed it was a little pathetic that a mild offer like that would send his heart thrumming. But around Jon, he’d never been good at thinking about anything but who he was with. “No,” he said, after a moment. “I’d like to be alone. Just for a little while. I’ll, um...I’ll find you later?” He supposed it sounded like an olive branch, a reassurance. He wondered if part of that longing he felt bled into his tone. _I want to be alone now, but never for long, and never when you’re waiting._

Martin liked to think Jon had understood. Jon’s head was tilted the slightest bit when he looked at him, a hand wrapped around his opposite arm. “Course,” Jon said softly.

“Go get your head clear,” Sasha said. “We’ll clean up here.” 

It took Martin a moment of just...looking, before he could bring himself to nod and turn away. It felt...alien, to be cared about. To see that clear concern on Sasha’s face, in Jon’s body language. He was...unused to having people there if he stumbled or fell. It was foreign, but had a light, warm feeling blooming in his chest.

He wanted to be alone, for a moment, to get his thoughts in order. But he wasn’t _alone._ Not here, not so long as he had these people he cared about. And he wasn’t about to let the Web take that away from him. 

* * *

He was lying in a particularly plush patch of grass by the fence he’d come to call his when he heard a voice from the other side of the fence. 

“Alright, maybe I was wrong. Maybe _this_ is your sad face.”

Martin recognized the voice a second after the shock hit him. He scrambled into a sitting position, a grin splitting his face. “Melanie! Where—where have you been? I was worried about you,” he said in a rush, looking her over. 

She looked...better. Cleaner for one. A little more filled out, not quite as lean and hungry looking. She was wearing the same faded clothes as the last day Martin had seen her, but they looked to have been washed. 

She scrunched up her nose a bit at him, glancing away. “I’m fine, Jesus. Really Martin, no need to mother-hen.”

“For my sake, Melanie, not yours,” he clarified a little techily, “how...how are you? Where have you been staying?”

Melanie sighed, sinking cross legged in the grass opposite him. “I’m...fine. I’m still angry, but I’m not,” she tilted her head and widened her eyes at him, “you know. It’s still...tempting, but I don’t really want to be like that again. And it seems like...that desire’s been sticking.”

“And you’ve been...keeping yourself safe?” Martin asked.

“Safe?” Melanie scoffed. “Martin, I’m an avatar of the _Slaughter._ ”

“Are you?” he countered. “Anymore?”

She opened her mouth, eyes narrowed, then shut it, glancing away. “If you want to get into technicalities,” she muttered, “I suppose I’m somewhere in the middle. But I’ve been fine. I...I found a cabin a long while back, I’ve been staying there for ages.”

Martin sighed. “That’s good.”

“What, you thought I’d been sleeping on dead leaves under the trees?” she asked, snorting.

Martin must have hesitated a bit too long, because her eyes narrowed and her jaw dropped. “I have _not_ been.”

Martin bit down on a laugh. Which was hard to contain when it made her look even more offended. Eventually it bubbled out, and though she didn’t join him, the scowl she tried to keep on her face twitched at the edges. 

“So,” Melanie said, after they’d settled into a brief silence, “how are _you?_ You looked...you looked like something was on your mind.”

Martin’s lingering smile slowly faded. “Yeah,” he said tiredly. “Yeah, I...” He hesitated for a moment, then decided if there was _anyone_ who would understand, it would be Melanie. “I think I might be an avatar of the Web.”

Melanie blinked at him. “Oh. Shit,” she said.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I know.”

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, uncharacteristically tentative, “so like...what can you do?”

“I’m still figuring that out,” he said honestly. “But I think I...” He hesitated. It sounded so ridiculously improbable in his head. “I can...see the future? Maybe?” he said weakly.

Melanie gaped at him. “No way.” A huge smile started growing on her face.

Martin rushed to add, “I’m still not exactly sure that’s what—”

“No _way,_ Martin,” she said again, louder. Her grin was blinding. “That is not fair,” she said, pointing at him.

Martin rolled his eyes, huffing, “it’s not like I _chose._ ”

“No, but if you had to? Hell, I’d pick cool future seeing powers. What do I have? I’m good with a knife. How boring.”

“Would you like to trade?” Martin asked. “I’ve got one,” he said, shaking his boot and the knife strapped to it for emphasis, “just in case, and yet I don’t even know how to use it.”

Melanie looked at it, raising an eyebrow. “It’s very dainty.”

“ _Thanks_.”

“Why do you have it?” she asked, tilting her head at him. “If you’ve got no idea how to use it?”

Martin paused, thinking it over. “I don’t know. It was useful before, and it just...it makes me feel better. Not to have _nothing._ Even if I don’t really know how to use it, it feels better than nothing.”

Melanie nodded slowly. “Makes sense.” She blew out a breath, then said, “it really does. I get it. Not wanting to feel helpless. Anything to direct the hurt out and not in.”

Martin eyed her face, noticing the way her voice had begun to sound...sad, dragged down by something melancholic. He watched her eyes drift behind him, to the estate. “How’s everyone else?” she asked. When her eyes met his again, there was a smile quirked on her mouth, but that lingering tone in her voice made it look hollow. “Jon still stuffy as all hell?”

Martin made to answer—an instinctive defense of Jon and how he cared so much, so much it sometimes blinded him—but something struck him. It was the recognition of that look on her face, that tone in her voice. The ringing ache of loneliness that was so very familiar. 

So Martin paused instead, considering, before saying slowly, “you could see for yourself.”

Melanie frowned at him. “What? No, I can’t. The estate won’t let me in.” 

“When’s the last time you tried?” Martin asked. 

Melanie opened her mouth to answer, then stopped herself, her expression going pensive as she thought about it. “It won’t let me in,” she said again, though more slowly. “I’m of the Slaughter.”

“And I’m of the Web,” Martin pointed out. “And Jon and Sasha are part of the Stranger, but they’re also of the Eye.” 

“But...Daisy—”

“Basira said Daisy was of the Hunt long before she was ever a part of the Eye. Is that true of you?”

Melanie blinked, brow furrowed. “I...I don’t...I think the anger started around the same time as the job at the estate,” she said, as if just realizing it.

“So...” Martin said, “maybe you’re not really of one or the other. Maybe you’re of both?” Melanie looked contemplative, and Martin said, as gently as he could, “have you ever really tried to cross over into the estate?”

She blinked at him, brow furrowed, before her eyes found the estate behind them. “No,” she said, finally, softly. “I haven’t.”

Martin waited, patiently, until her eyes drifted back to his. “Do you want to?”

Melanie’s eyes drifted back to the estate, then back at him. “Does anyone even want me there?” she asked, and it sounded like she wanted to make it a joke and failed, her smile not convincing enough, her voice not steady enough.

“I do,” Martin told her, honestly. 

Melanie’s throat bobbed up and down, her eyes dropping from his and to the grass between them. She was silent for a long moment, before asking softly, “how are the touch-me-nots?”

Martin’s face creased in mild confusion. “What?”

Her lips twitched into an almost smile. “They’re _flowers_.” The expression on her face softened when she murmured, “they were my favorites in the greenhouse. Came in whites and pinks and reds. Not much to look at, but...they’re tough little things. And I like the name. Do you know if they’re still...?”

Martin stared at her, a small smile forming on his face. “I know exactly the ones.” And he did. He’d just never been able to track down the name. “They’re still there,” he told her. “I could show you them.”

Melanie met his eyes, staring for a few seconds. Martin waited with bated breath, hoping. 

Finally, Melanie nodded, once. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

* * *

It was no trial to get her through the gate. The Eye had always called to her just as much as the Slaughter. Martin remembered her telling him of her race away from the estate, that night it all went to hell. How it felt like something was tugging her back the whole way. The Eye wanted her. And it seemed like, now, she wanted the Eye more than the Slaughter. 

Martin couldn’t help but be so very glad of her choice, even if it was the lesser of two evils. 

As they came upon the others in the estate—boisterous, shocked greetings from Tim and uncharacteristic beaming smiles from Basira—he couldn’t help but think about choice, and what it meant. That, maybe, no matter what the fears tried to make of you, you still had some kind of a choice. 

He thought on it even as he introduced Melanie to an incredulous, but welcoming Sasha. 

He thought on it until they came across Jon, and Martin realized he wasn’t quite sure how this would go. He needn’t have worried though. Jon looked, at first, shocked, and a little wary, but there were no fits of yelling, or explosive anger. 

Jon merely looked at Melanie, then Martin—longer and lingering—and then back at Melanie, and said, “it’s been too quiet without you.”

Melanie blinked, uncrossing the defensive position her arms had taken like preemptive armor, fingers curling out of fists. “Thanks, Sims,” she said, voice a bit rough.

When she made to head to the greenhouse, Martin lingered a moment longer, looking back at Jon. Melanie’s hand was clasped in his, so it was brief, but he smiled at Jon, so flooded with fondness for him he could hardly breathe around it. He was sure it must have shown on his face, in the soft curve of his smile. 

He couldn’t see Jon’s face. But in the line of his shoulders and the slight tilt of his head, Martin was sure he was smiling back. 

Martin thought about choice as Melanie tugged him around the corner, his imagination conjuring the curves of Jon’s smile, and he knew, in that moment, he’d save the world for Jonathan Sims’ smile alone.

* * *

The doors to the library crashed open and Martin startled, the book he’d been reading nearly flying from his hands. 

“Alright, you incorrigible book worms,” Tim announced loudly upon his entrance. He juggled several bottles of liquor in his arms. He was trailed by a smirking Melanie holding a radio that looked at least 20 years old and Sasha, brows raised and yet, simultaneously, looking unsurprised. 

“Sorry, what the fuck?” Basira asked, looking over her book at them. The flat annoyance in her voice made Martin snort a laugh.

“Book down!” Tim told her cheerily. He raised his arms, the bottles tinkling against each other in a way that narrowly avoided disaster. “It’s time for booze!” 

“What’s going on?” Martin asked, aiming the question at Melanie since she sat herself down on the arm of the couch next to him, after plopping that ugly, boxy radio onto the ground. 

Melanie grinned like a shark. “We,” she said, alternating pointing to both of them, “are going to get _smashed._ ”

Martin raised his brows. “Are we?” he asked, glancing at Sasha over Melanie’s shoulder.

Sasha shrugged, her cardigan falling slightly over her shoulder, grin small and prim. “We’re celebrating Melanie’s arrival,” she said.

“Yes, we are indeed,” Tim confirmed, coming up in front of him. “We’ve been saving this stuff for a special occasion.”He again jostled the bottles of booze as he tried to shuffle through them, nearly dropping what looked like a bottle of scotch over Martin’s forgotten book. Tim, ignoring Martin’s indignant cry, said, “you strike me as a gin man. Yes? No? Hold on, do I have—?” he again fiddled dangerously with the numerous bottles in his arms, as Martin shimmied to the other side of the couch to avoid any falling glassware. “Ah! I do! Gin,” Tim said, angling the bottle at his elbow for Martin to take. 

“I don’t actually think I’ve ever had gin,” Martin said, though he took the proffered bottle just to keep Tim from shaking it at him and threatening any mess. 

“Oh, Marto, you’re in a for a treat,” Tim grinned, moving away to try to tempt an unimpressed Basira. 

“We found this old radio in one of the storage rooms,” Melanie told him, leaning down to fiddle with it. Upon turning it on, static crackled loudly.

Martin winced. “Can we even get a signal all the way out here?”

“Hold on,” Melanie murmured, twisting the dial with her ear turned to it. “Tim and I found a single station we could pick up earli—ah! There!”

Music suddenly replaced the static, though it still crackled lightly in the background. Sounds of lively piano and a crooning voice trailed through the speakers. Melanie grinned, cranking the volume up. “Station doesn’t play anything but stuff that came out at least 40 years ago, but it’s something,” she said over the music. 

Tim came back around, decidedly less burdened with alcohol. He held out a bottle to Melanie. “Still a tequila gal?” 

“Some things never change,” she grinned, playfully swiping the bottle from his hand. She was loose and smiling enough that he wondered if Tim and Melanie hadn’t already cracked open a few of the bottles. “And for you, bartender?”

“You know,” Tim murmured, almost conspiratorially, though he had to be paradoxically loud over the music, “Elias kept this _ancient_ absinthe at the back of the liquor cabinet, and I was thinking...”

“ _Tim,”_ Martin warned, in the same moment that Melanie asked, ”was it _unopened?”_

“Oh, please, I do not want to deal with you both drunk on absinthe—Sasha!” Martin called over to her. “Can we outlaw absinthe?”

“No absinthe, Tim!” Sasha echoed, finger pointing, before taking a swig of what looked like straight vodka.

Tim sighed, very put upon, but said, “fine, only the traditional, boring spirits.” He tilted his head and asked, “You like the gin, Martin?”

“Um, I haven’t, um...” He glanced away from Tim’s lopsided grin and to the empty, open doorway. “Did you...tell Jon about this?”

“He was conked out,” Tim said, his voice leveling a bit. “We wanted to start before sunset so Sash could have some fun, but, Martin, if you think I plan to stop drinking and dancing to old, crooning music before sundown you are _entirely_ mistaken. Jon’ll hear the racket and join us when he’s ready. Besides,” Tim added, waving the last bottle left in his hand for emphasis, “we’re saving him the red. He’s so picky about wines, I swear.”

Martin nodded, matching Tim’s smile until he turned away, then feeling it slip off his face. Melanie bumped his shoulder. “That what you meant?” she asked, nodded her head at Tim, who’d wandered over to Sasha and Basira. “When you said you were worried about Jon?”

Martin sighed, nodding again. He couldn’t hear the others across the room with the music blaring, and it was, strangely, like they were in their own soundproof bubble, both just able to hear the other over the cacophony of noise. “Yeah. It just...it seems like he’s been so tired lately, and he never accepts help with the statements unless it’s from Sasha, and sometimes I just feel so—so—“ He cut off, sighing in frustration.

“Useless?” Melanie filled in, her expression twisting in sympathy. 

Martin sighed again, and shrugged, but he didn’t deny it. Couldn’t deny it was true. Jon was getting worse, and he felt so _useless._

“Martin,” Melanie said, uncharacteristically soft, “you’re not useless. You’re here. You’re helping, alright? You...you helped me. I mean, I...” Her eyes lowered and she said, “for a long time, I thought everyone just forgot about me.”

“They didn’t—” Martin told her, immediately.

“I know,” she assured. “I know that now. So maybe...maybe it’s the same for you, Martin. Because, believe me, you’re helping. Maybe it’s just...hard for you to see that right now.”

Martin swallowed roughly. “It is hard to feel like that. I feel like I’ve done nothing. Haven’t changed anything.”

Melanie cocked her head, and looked at him, brows furrowed. “And what do you call me? Am I _nothing_ to you?” She laughed when Martin spluttered, for a moment thinking he’d actually offended her. 

“Rude,” he murmured, as she laughed. He eyed the bottle of gin Tim had given him, and experimentally took a sip. It didn’t taste good at all, but that was rarely the point of these things. It burned pleasantly on the way down.

“Good?” Melanie asked him, glancing sideways.

Martin nodded, his expression still a little twisted from the taste. “It’ll do,” he said, and Melanie laughed again.

He was a few more sips in when he registered Tim’s voice carrying over, exasperated. “Ah, shit, do we—did we get rid of all the corkscrews after the Prentiss incident?” he asked loudly over the music. He was looking down at the bottle of wine like it had personally displeased him. 

“We did,” Basira confirmed, as she passed the bottle of vodka back to Sasha. Her head was lolling a bit—the only sign she’d been affected by the swigs at all. “They were a biohazard.”

“Noooo,” Sasha moaned, her head resting on the back of the couch, “Jon refuses to drink anything else.”

“I would like to fistfight the inventor of the corkscrew,” Tim muttered, seemingly trying to shimmy the cork up by slapping the neck of the bottle against his hand. “If I—maybe I’ll try a knife in the kitchen—”

“Oh!” Martin suddenly exclaimed. All the eyes in the room turned to him as he undid the laces that held the knife to his boot and brandished it with a grin. 

“What?” Basira said flatly.

Tim started laughing and got out, through bursts, “Hold on—”

“Oooh, it comes in handy now,” Melanie grinned at him, plucking the boning knife from his fingers.

“Oh no!” Sasha exclaimed, suddenly coming alive from her pleased slump on the couch. She marched up and gingerly pulled it out of Melanie’s grasp. “We are not letting the recovering Slaughter avatar have the knife.”

“It’s practically a tooth pick!” Melanie protested, though when Sasha danced out of her reach she gave up soon enough, slumping back against the couch. 

“Thank you, Sash,” Tim said, reaching out for it, but Sasha held it out of his grasp as well. 

“Uh uh, love,” she said. “Not after all that soju you’re not. Pass it here.”

Tim did so, but only after enough pouting to get Sasha to laugh at his antics. The cork came free with a pop, and Martin took another swig of gin, pleasantly warm, the music and chatter of his friends falling over him like rain. 

* * *

It was far easier to dance unselfconsciously with the hazy, lightness of some booze in his system. It’d been a long time since he’d drank like this, and he was sure to have a killer headache in the morning, but those worries were far from his mind in the moment. Tim’s dancing was god-awful and unapologetically so, and Sasha’s beside him was loose and flowing with the lilting music. 

Basira was waving her arms to the beat where she was sprawled on the couch, and Melanie had found a pair of sunglasses from...somewhere and was lip-synching intensely from her stance on the other couch. 

And Martin...Martin was spinning, watching the ceiling swirl, and feeling the smile grow on his face. Tim was shout-singing the words of the song, and then the song itself was rising into a crescendo of rising, bouncing piano, and then Martin was spinning too fast, and he was stumbling, and—

He crashed into something solid, something warm that smelled like linen and paper, with steady hands that caught his own. Martin blinked, glancing up into Jon’s wide eyes, that pleasant warmth expanding like a balloon in his stomach, pressing the beating of his heart against the front of his ribs. “Hi Jon,” he murmured softly.

Jon was looking back at him, wide eyed. He didn’t move to increase the distance between them, and neither did Martin. It was like a moment in limbo, the music fading in the background, Jon so close he could probably hear Martin’s heart thrumming. 

The moment was broken by Tim. “Heeeeeeeere’s Johnny!” he shouted over the music. 

“Eyyyy! Simsssss,” Melanie called from her stance on the couch cushions, “join us! We got your red, pretentious prick!”

“What on earth,” Jon muttered, his voice so utterly flat with incredulity it made Martin giggle.

Jon’s eyes locked back onto his, and, for a moment, Martin forgot how to breathe. “We’re celebrating Melanie,” Martin told him, his sappy grin refusing to leave his face.

“Are we?” Jon asked after a moment.

“Yes,” Martin confirmed. And then, because he was very drunk and distractingly pressed against Jon, he blurted, “do you want to dance with me?” 

Jon stared at him in shocked silence for a long breath. “It’s okay if you don’t want to—” Martin started, only feeling mildly hurt really, but then Jon blurted, “okay.”

Martin blinked, and so did Jon, as if he had realized what he’d said. “Really?” Martin asked, grinning.

“I...yes,” Jon said, his shoulders taking on a slant of determination. Martin adored it. “I’ll probably be terrible at it, though,” Jon added.

“I’m counting on it,” Martin murmured, taking his hand and pulling him into the fray. 

It was terrible. Jon was uncoordinated and boney, and got more so after downing a decent amount of red wine, and Martin was just on the side of smashed where rhythm stopped making sense. Toes were stepped on, often, and they bumped into Tim twice. 

It was so very terrible, and Martin was so very happy. Depending on the song, Jon was either pressed close, or they had their hands clasped as they shuffled along to the beat, and the constant contact left Martin’s head whirling pleasantly. When they got tired, their hands remained clasped, and a tipsy Jon got into some half hearted argument with Tim about emulsifiers, and Martin was so very happy he felt like he could fly. 

He thought it was about 1 part alcohol, 3 parts Jonathan Sims.

Martin eyed him where they were sprawled next to each other on the couch, the back of his right hand pushed up against the back of Jon’s left, a barely there contact that still left his heart thrumming in his chest. He watched Jon’s fingers tap to the beat of the song against the arm of the couch. “Are you alright?” Martin asked him, in their own little bubble of quiet. If he leaned a few inches to the right, his head would find Jon’s shoulder. He was distracted by the distance, infinitesimal and too large all at once.

Jon turned to him, blinking. “Me? I’m fine.”

“No, I mean,” Martin sighed, “in...in general. Are you alright? You’ve been so tired lately.”

Jon tilted his head in that way that told Martin he was about to argue, so Martin glared at him, and that seemed to do it. Jon deflated against the back of the couch a little, and admitted, “I...have been. I am tired. Constantly. It feels like no matter how many statements I record I just feel...drained.”

Martin’s heart sank. “I’m sorry,” he said, picking at the thread coming loose from the couch. “I wish...I wish I could help more. I wish I knew what that awful book wanted.”

Jon’s hand slipped into his, pausing the anxious motion. Martin looked up at him, breath catching in his throat. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to Jon looking at him like that, soft, in every way. “Martin, you’ve helped more than you know.”

Martin’s heart swelled in his chest, feeling three sizes two big, crowding up at the base of his throat. He could drown in the adoration he felt. He wanted, abruptly, to cross the scant distance between them, wondered if Jon’s mouth was stained red from the wine and if he’d taste it on his lips—

He wanted, so desperately, to see him, to see if those feelings might be mirrored there for him to see. 

Martin traced the edge of the hood around Jon’s face with a finger. “Do you think...do you think I’ve had enough experience with the Eye to try to see you?”

Jon’s voice, when he finally answered, was uneven, breathy. “I don’t know.”

“I could try,” Martin murmured.

Jon slowly brought his hand up, his fingers curling around Martin’s, gently bringing his hand down. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I—” Jon cut off, looking down at their entwined hands. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly. 

Before Martin could say anything, before he could assure _you wouldn’t, you couldn’t,_ Jon blurted, “I’m sorry.” 

Jon looked at him with such wide, earnest eyes that Martin didn’t know what to do with himself. “Why?” Martin asked, at a loss.

“I never...I never apologized,” Jon said, “for...for the lock. For implying you would leave if given the chance. I know you wouldn’t—you...you wouldn’t, I know that. I _knew_ that, I want you to know, it’s just. I’m not...I’m not used to things going well.” He paused and huffed, as if frustrated by how it was all coming out, but Martin hung on every word, every twitch of Jon’s fingers entwined in his. Jon looked at Martin, then, and Martin felt like falling. “It’s just easier to think that things are going to fall apart,” Jon said, slowly, “than to...than to hope they won’t.” Jon looked down at their hands again, and Martin was sure he’d forgotten how to breathe and would never remember again. “But I have this feeling...that they won’t, now,” Jon said, looking back up at him. 

Every line of him was soft, his hand was warm like a lifeline in Martin’s, and he finally, finally felt like he could name that feeling in his chest. There, in that moment, with the music drowning out everything else but them.

He loved Jonathan Sims with everything he was. Whatever that might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwww they're so happy!!!! :)))))))
> 
> It'd be a shame if something.......happened....
> 
> :)))))
> 
> Bonus points to anyone who guesses what's going to happen in the next chapter, as it's a direct result of something that happens in this chapter.
> 
> Happy holidays everyone ❤️
> 
> Update (for anyone who bothers to check for this lol): Heyyyy so ahhhhh, here's the deal. I had THE busiest time last week up until late yesterday finishing grad school apps, and now I have to find the time to write a 12 page paper and finish a project so....unfortunately, there will be no new chapter tonight. Should be up next wednesday, it's just I have a lot on my plate this week 😅 But maybe, in a way, this is a good thing. We can all bask in the fluff of this chapter for a little while longer :))


	20. The Second Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes if you'd like specific chapter warnings

Martin was floating in a soft place between consciousness and sleep. He was distantly aware that whatever he was lying on was very warm, the smell of it soothing and familiar. He buried his nose into it, huffing a contented breath. His pillow made a kind of choked noise.

“Martin,” he heard, a barely there whisper.

Easy to ignore. “Ngk,” he said, burrowing closer to the warmth. This was far more pleasant than the looming headache he knew he’d have in a few hours. Best to just sleep through it.

His pillow moved again at that, a brief shaking motion accompanied by a huff of breath. Something that felt like fabric brushed against Martin’s nose. A soft, warm touch lighted on his cheek. Martin leaned into the touch unconsciously, the repetitive brush of motion lulling him further under. 

He heard a soft, barely there sound, like a slow sigh. The touch on his face moved slowly, feather-light, tracing his cheekbone and running through his air. It felt nice. Sent little shivers down his spine. When the caress came again, he wanted to melt into the feeling, let the warm darkness take him forever if it felt like this, always.

“Martin,” came that voice, again, a rumble Martin could hear from underneath him, achingly soft. 

Martin blinked into reality slowly, like emerging from a cloud. He shifted on his pillow, and froze when it moved as well. 

He realized several things in quick succession. The first was that Jon was looking down at him, _very_ close, and second was that that feeling had been Jon’s fingers gently brushing through Martin’s hair and that they were now falling away as Martin blinked up at him, and third, that Martin was _drooling_ on Jon’s _shoulder_. 

He jolted up, scrubbing a hand over his face, then going very still and blinking wildly when the room spun. Jon’s hand lighted on his shoulder, the touch burning through the sweater Martin wore. “Alright?” Jon asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Martin fought the flush he knew was creeping onto his cheeks. “I—fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to...” he squinted at nothing in particular, trying to remember how exactly he’d ended up plastered against Jon, but his memories were hazy with alcohol. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep very well last—well. You know that, I suppose.”

“I do,” Jon replied after a moment, his tone more serious. Jon’s thumb brushed over the holes of the knit sweater at his shoulder, the heat of his hand sneaking through so that it almost felt like a brush against skin. Martin was fixated by the point of contact. “I wouldn’t have woken you,” Jon was saying, “but it didn’t look very comfortable on your neck.”

Martin bit down on the reply that it _had_ been comfortable, and even if his neck had protested, he thought he would have liked to remain there a little longer. Surely til sunrise wasn’t such a big ask. 

Instead of admitting to _that,_ he cast his eyes around the room. The radio was still playing music, though someone had turned down the volume. The windows lit the room with moonlight. Melanie was curled up on an armchair in a position that looked simultaneously comfortable and horrid, snoring lightly. Tim was sprawled on the other couch, matching her in volume. 

Martin sniffed, absently looking for Sasha or Basira, when realization struck him. His eyes snapped to the window and then to Jon. “Did Sasha—?”

“Basira got her back to her room,” Jon assured him.

Martin released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Good. Good, I—hadn’t realized how late it got.”

“Clearly not,” Jon said lightly. Martin could hear the smile in his voice and, for a second, with the way Jon’s voice sounded and the way he was looking at him, his thoughts short-circuited. Luckily, Jon continued, “Sasha was keeping an eye out, despite the rather impressive amount of shots she took.”

“Oh,” Martin said, a little distantly. His fuzzy thoughts had quickly drifted from Sasha to the slope of Jon’s smile. He let his head drop to rest on the back of the couch, even though all he wanted was to press closer to Jon again. “That’s good.”

Before Jon could respond, a yawn caught Martin of guard, the sheer force of it making his eyes water. Jon’s breath huffed on a laugh, a quiet, gentle thing that Martin adored. He wanted to hear it again and again.

God, Martin loved him so much, so much his chest ached with it. 

His eyes dropped to Jon’s hand, resting just next to him, and thought how easy it would be to reach down and thread his fingers between Jon’s. He had lovely hands, pianist’s hands, with long elegant fingers and delicate tendons—

“Martin,” Jon said, clearly not for the first time. 

Martin blinked up at him tiredly. “Hm?”

Jon’s eyes looked over his face, his head tilting. “You should get to bed,” he murmured softly.

Martin didn’t even have the energy to protest. His head was pleasantly fuzzy, his eyelids drooping. “Suppose so,” he said. “Back to the Archive I go.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jon said, and Martin’s heart sang, but then Jon plowed on, “there are some statements I need to record.”

Martin frowned at him, tilting his head against the back of the couch to look at him. The fabric scratched at his cheek, not at all as comfortable as resting on Jon’s shoulder had been. “You want to _work?”_

Jon shrugged. “We’re going to the Archive anyway—”

“Jon,” Martin admonished, “absolutely not.”

“But—”

“No, you’re just going to fall asleep at your desk again,” Martin said.

“I—that doesn’t happen that often.”

“It happened three times last week.”

Jon took a breath as if to contradict the statement, but whatever unimpressed expression Martin had on his face seemed to get him to deflate. A burst of fondness welled up in Martin’s chest. Perhaps there was still a bit of liquid courage in his system, because he dropped his hand to rest on top of Jon’s and held it there. 

Jon blinked, staring at the point of contact, then back up at Martin, eyes soft. 

Martin didn’t know how he kept his voice steady when he murmured, “you should get some rest too, Jon.”

Jon shook his head once, but before Martin could sigh and press the point, he placed his other hand over Martin’s and said, “I don’t want you to feel alone. Since...since Tim’s here, and everyone else has already gone to bed...”

Martin blinked at him, his breath catching in his chest. Oh. _Oh_. “I’m sure I’ll be safe from the Lonely for one night,” he managed, after he found his voice again.

Jon’s eyes dropped down to their hands, then up at Martin, and he said, in one breath, “You could come back to mine.”

Every thought in Martin’s head screeched to a sudden stop. “What?”

“I mean—” Jon stuttered, looking everywhere and nowhere all at once, “J-Just so you won’t be—just in case. So someone can...be there with you.” 

At Martin’s stunned silence, in which he was replaying the words and trying to determine if he’d made them up or not, Jon continued, “you—you don’t have to. If you’d rather not, I just thought I should—I mean—”

“Okay,” Martin answered breathlessly, effectively ending Jon’s rambling. 

“Oh,” Jon said, blinking at him. “Okay.”

A smile grew on Martin’s face when neither of them moved. “Jon?”

“Yes?” Jon answered distantly, his eyes belated meeting Martin’s. If Martin didn’t know any better, he would have thought Jon was looking at his mouth.

“As much as I love this couch,” he said, grinning, “I am actually very tired—“

“Oh!” Jon exclaimed. “Right, I—right.” He got up from the couch, gently pulling his hands away in the process, but looked back at Martin and, after a brief moment, held his left hand out. “Let’s go, then.”

Martin took Jon’s hand with the gentle reverence reserved for precious, fragile things, trying to contain the wild joy that thumped behind his ribs. Martin stood, acutely aware that a sway to the right could send him into the warmth of Jon’s side. He cast a glance back at the sleeping occupants of the room, huffing a laugh. “Think they’ll be alright?” 

“They’ll sleep it off,” Jon answered, matching amusement in his tone when Tim let out a particularly deep-toned snore.

“You don’t really seem like _you’ll_ have to sleep anything off,” Martin observed, squinting at him as they walked, still hand in hand. 

“Neither do you,” Jon countered, though Martin could easily point out that wasn’t entirely true. He felt drunk off Jon’s presence alone, his thoughts caught on nothing but the feeling of Jon’s hand in his, the way he smelled like wine and linen and paper. 

“Oh, I will have a god awful hangover in a few hours,” Martin assured him cheerily.

“Mm, that’s unfortunate.”

Martin waited a moment, narrowing his eyes. “And what about _you?”_ he asked, when Jon said nothing more.

“Fast metabolism,” Jon said simply. There, again, was the sound of a smile.

“Hm,” Martin grumbled. “Lucky.” He glanced sideways at him. “Is that an Eye thing or a you thing?”

“Bit of both.”

“Lucky,” Martin said again.

Jon’s thumb began to brush circles over the back of Martin’s hand. “Want me to bring you tea tomorrow morning?”

“Would you?” Martin asked longingly. 

“Course,” Jon said softly. “Darjeeling or Assam?”

“Hmm, surprise me,” Martin answered. 

“Alright,” Jon said, his voice like a feather-light touch. 

“I can’t wait to wake up with a hangover,” Martin said, that warmth in his chest exploding when Jon let out a genuine, lovely laugh in response. 

This must have been what it felt like to fly.

When they came upon Jon’s room and he opened the door, Martin couldn’t help but hesitate in the doorway. The bed inside was more than big enough for two people, and it would probably do wonders for his back to sleep on a genuine mattress instead of a cot, but he couldn’t help but be intimidated by it. 

What side did Jon sleep on? What if he moved around in his sleep too much? Did—did Jon even want to share the bed? Had he misread what Jon had meant when he’d—

“You can take either side,” Jon told him through what sounded like a yawn. “I don’t really have a preference.”

“Oh.” Martin nodded, his frantic thoughts quieting. He followed as Jon stepped inside. “You—you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m sure, Martin,” he said softly, squeezing his hand before letting go. He pointed to a door at their left, likely the bathroom. “Did you want to...?”

“Oh, no, you—you go ahead,” Martin told him. 

Jon nodded, looking back at him once more before slipping into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Martin took the moment in the sudden quiet to take a steadying breath. 

He glanced around the room, taking in the signs of life. The piles of paper scattered across the desk, the mountains of books by the window, the green cardigan draped over the desk chair. He wandered closer to the bed and studied it. The slight divot in the middle, a perfect silhouette of Jon’s slender frame. The dark green comforter and the pillows, pushed up against the headboard. 

He pulled the covers away on the left side, gingerly, a strange feeling lingering, like if he moved too quickly or disturbed anything too much it would all cease to be real. He sat, the mattress dipping slightly for him, and shucked off his boots with a few, uncoordinated movements. 

When he finally slipped under the covers and set his head on the pillow, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, sinking into the comfort. He could almost imagine, with Jon’s scent on the pillow and the warmth of the blankets, that it was like before, Martin leaning into Jon’s side and Jon’s fingers carding through his hair. Contentment and exhaustion pulled him further and further under.

Sometime later, Martin distantly felt the mattress dip. It wasn’t quite enough to drag him back up again. He buried his face further into the pillow, letting out a contented sigh. 

He swore he felt that touch against his cheek again, just for a moment, tracing the contours of his face.

“Goodnight, Martin,” he almost heard, soft and lovely, like a sigh.

And then he was gone.

He dreamt not of lonely fog, but of the memory of Jon’s head on his shoulder as they swayed to distant music, and the feeling of, perhaps, being loved in return.

* * *

Martin snapped awake for no reason. There had been no nightmare. No sudden movement from Jon at his side. Nothing but a strange, sharp ache in his chest, as if something physically pulled him from slumber. 

He opened his eyes to see Jon’s form closer than he’d remembered him settling. The pounding headache had already come on, and his throat was dry as ash, but something about seeing Jon made those less than pleasant feelings unimportant. Distant. 

Martin studied the place where Jon’s face would have been in the darkness of the room, finding the edges of the hood as his eyes adjusted. He could hear Jon’s even breaths in sleep, and watched his chest move with them, up and down. It wasn’t quite enough, when the desire to see Jon’s face again rose up in him like a wave. Would the furrow he imagined between Jon’s brow be smoothed over in sleep? Would he look younger, all the tension gone from him?

He couldn’t even see Jon’s eyes now, not even that sign of life. It filled him with a different kind of ache, a sadness that twisted at him. It was all he wanted, to help Jon be free from the Stranger. 

His eyes dropped to Jon’s hand, settled on the mattress between them. His eyes traced the lines of his fingers, the curve of his palm, the sparse, circular scars on the back of his hand. 

It wasn’t enough to soothe the ache in his chest. 

Swallowing around the dryness of his throat, Martin sat up slowly, careful not to disturb the covers too much. His head pounded unhappily at the movement, so he paused, just sitting and blinking into the darkness. 

Jon’s hand moved to cover his, his thumb brushing Martin’s knuckles, and when Martin glanced over he saw Jon squinting at him sleepily. “Alright?” he asked, a pleasing sleep-rumble in his voice.

“Fine,” Martin told him, unable to contain his fond smile. 

“Sure?”

“Yes, Jon,” Martin laughed softly. “‘M just really thirsty.”

“Tea time?” Jon asked, so clearly still half-asleep it made Martin grin wider. 

“Not yet,” he said, glancing at the stars outside through the window. “Still a few hours to go.”

“Oh,” Jon murmured, pulling the blankets closer. “Okay.” He yawned, and Martin heard the sound of his teeth clacking together. 

“Go back to sleep, Jon,” he murmured. It was a lost cause to keep the fondness out of his voice. He had no idea if Jon recognized it or not, because it only took a few more moments before Jon’s breathing was evening out again and he sunk back into sleep. 

Martin stared for a moment longer before slipping out of bed, gently sliding his hand out from under Jon’s. The memory of the touch lingered, making his hand tingle as he made his way down the hall, and then down the stairs to reach the kitchen. He pulled a mug down from the cupboards with the ghost of Jon’s touch on the back of his hand. He felt warm from it, like Jon wasn’t meters away, but like he was there, clinging to him. 

Martin filled the mug with water from the tap, taking a sip and soothing the dry ache of his throat. He sighed, sleepy and content despite the pounding of his head, and, with his free hand, absently traced the back of his hand where Jon’s hand had been, moments before. And he felt...

He—he felt—

 _Fear. Fear and_ pain, _and horror—_

_The glint of a knife—_

_And Martin—please, please, not him, not_ Martin— _a knife tracing his throat as Jon reached uselessly, struggling to breathe, his leg aching—_

_A gunshot—_

_An awful scream from a throat that was not his—_

The mug slipped from Martin’s fingers and shattered on the tile. The sound yanked him back to the present, where his breath came too fast in the silence. Dread and horror rooted him to the spot, his trembling hand reaching back to the counter to steady himself. 

A door slammed from the second floor. He heard shouting, and then, a shriek, high and piercing and _inhuman_. 

It shocked him into movement, sent him racing, sliding in socks against the tile, and the only thought in his head was Jon’s name, over and over and over again. 

He burst into the foyer in time to catch sight of the movement on the second story balcony, two figures locked together. And then, before his eyes, they crashed through the wooden railing and plummeted, bodies twisting and then hitting the floor with an awful crack. 

“Where is she!?” he heard Basira’s voice shout, distantly, through the roaring in his head, but he couldn’t draw his eyes away from the two figures lying still below the balcony. 

He recognized the fabric of their clothing. The yellow cardigan, stained with rusty smudges. The black cloak, soft, smelling like the Archive.

He recognized the hand—splayed up and unmoving—of the figure that had hit the ground first. Martin had held it minutes ago. 

Jon remained motionless, but the form on top twitched and shifted, and slowly drew itself up. 

Martin recognized the profile. The shape of its nose and jaw. But that was where all familiarity ended. Sasha’s face was leached of color, pale and sickly, her hair weighed down, black and oily, like the ink that welled from the book. Her grin showed too many teeth, skin pulled taut at the corners of her mouth. 

She raised her hand, looking down at Jon with that awful smile, a knife glinting in her fist. 

The NotThem made to move, a tensing of muscle and another glint of the knife in the light, and something in Martin’s chest tightened and cracked. A word escaped him, searing his throat and stealing away his vision, blinding him with gold. “ **NO!** ”

He blinked it away in time to see her arm stopped in its arch as if a hand had wrapped around her wrist, the point of the knife trembling inches away from Jon’s chest. Her smile vanished. She pulled her arm back and tried again, and again, but her blows always stopped just shy of making a mark, as if catching on something solid hovering just above Jon’s chest. 

The NotThem’s eyes flashed to him, and it tilted its head, as if curious. 

There was no time for him to wonder what had happened, what he had done. No thought in him other than the mindless terror of prey locking eyes with a predator.

“Jon?” Martin called hoarsely, never taking his eyes off the NotThem. _Please,_ he thought. _Oh god, please let him be okay._ “Jon?”

In his periphery, he saw Jon twitch, a turn of his head, a shift of his fingers. 

The NotThem stood slowly from it’s crouch above Jon, its eyes locked on Martin. It took a step closer to him, stepping over Jon, and Martin took an answering step back, terror closing in around his throat. 

In his periphery, Martin saw Basira slink into the room, quiet as a mouse, holding a rifle steady in her arms. 

He saw her take aim. Saw her finger twitch on the trigger. And then Tim appeared beside her, pressing the barrel of the gun down just as the shot rang out. 

The NotThem moved faster than should have been possible, crowding Martin up against the door. 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing—”

“You’ll hurt her!”

“That’s _not Sasha—_ ”

“She’s _still in there!”_

Martin saw Basira fighting Tim for a grip on the gun out of the corner of his eye, saw Jon writhing in pain, his eyes dim and slitted as he reached out. But his vision was filled with the NotThem as it looked at him, studying his face, absently tracing the knife against his bobbing throat. “Very impressive, little weaver,” the thing said, in a voice that he knew was too low and raspy to be Sasha’s, but that inexplicably sounded like her all the same. 

“Please,” Martin breathed, his throat catching on the word. He didn’t even know what he was asking for. 

It tilted it’s head, just looking at him without much expression. That was Sasha’s bone structure under its face, her dark eyes made flat, and something that looked like new skin that stretched over it, too monochrome and smooth to be real. The NotThem leaned in, close to Martin’s ear, and Martin turned his head away, pressing his face against the door, terror making his head feel light. “I always knew you’d let me out,” the NotThem whispered to him, like a secret.

In a motion too fast to process, it moved, plunging the knife into the wood of the door less than an inch from his head. Martin flinched violently, his breaths ripping out of his throat. The NotThem laughed, a piercing sound that didn’t reach its eyes. 

It leaned in again, but before it could say anything a blur of movement came from the left and barreled into it, and they crashed to the ground in a tumble. Martin caught sight of short cropped black hair, overalls, and grit teeth. 

_Melanie,_ the part of his mind that was not flooded with panic told him. 

The knife buried in the door glinted in the light. His eyes glanced to it, and stayed there. It was his knife. The knife, the one he’d kept strapped to his boot for ages, the one he’d given Sasha earlier in the day. 

The knife that worked well for jimmying locks.

He stared at it, a hollow feeling, worse than terror, worse than pain, carving its way through his stomach. 

The sound of Jon, rasping out his name, brought him back. Martin raced over to him, crashing down to his knees by Jon’s side. He clasped Jon’s hand when it reached for him, tears blurring his vision as he pressed it close to his chest. 

Jon’s breaths were shallow and rattling, his eyes blinking slow and unfocused. Martin knew what broken ribs looked like, and knew that there was more, could see the unnatural angle Jon’s right leg had taken below the knee. “You’re okay,” Martin murmured, trying to keep the tears out of his voice. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Jon’s breath rattled deeper, and his voice came, pained and short, his eyes boring into Martin’s. “Get out of here. Find somewhere safe.”

It was strange, how distant the chaos behind him seemed. There was Melanie, struggling against the NotThem, and Tim, now on the floor clutching a bleeding nose and still yelling, trying to get Basira to lower the gun trained on the two figures scrabbling on the ground. 

“Martin,” Jon rasped.

“I’m not leaving you,” Martin breathed, clutching Jon’s hand closer to his chest. “Any of you. I’m not.”

The NotThem shrieked again, an awful ear piercing sound that drew Martin’s gaze to it. He saw the moment Melanie’s grip on the NotThem’s wrists slipped. The NotThem’s fingers tightened in Melanie’s hair and slammed her head to the floor, once, twice. 

“Melanie!” he called, her name ripping from his throat with the panic of seeing her go still. He instinctively made to move to her, but Jon’s hand fisted in the fabric of his sweater, pulling him back. 

The NotThem rose. 

“Basira!” Tim yelled.

Basira pulled the trigger, and the NotThem staggered back with a splatter of blood. 

The sound Tim made was less of a scream and more of cry with all the volume in his chest. 

There was a brief moment of silence, where every eye was on the NotThem, watching where it curled in on itself, legs trembling. It straightened slowly, its eyes—nothing, _nothing_ like Sasha’s—narrowed in fury, shoulder dripping blood, soaking through the yellow cardigan that Sasha had worn just hours ago. It opened its mouth and shrieked at Basira, a demonic, animalistic sound that had bulbs shattering and windows shaking. 

When it moved, Basira’s shot went wide, catching on the door as it banged open to the chill of the night, and the NotThem disappeared into the dark. 

The door creaked on its hinges, swinging in the wind. 

The silence that followed was long and awful. The silence bore down on them like a crushing weight, constricted around all their throats, and whispered, softly, _what have you done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: gun violence, canon typical violence (descriptions of blood, broken bones)  
> There is a strong tonal shift in the middle of this chapter, and it ends pretty bleakly 
> 
> ....sooo this might be a good time to point out the happy ending tag, and the everyone lives nobody dies tag 😅


	21. The Arachnid

Martin had never thought of Jon as fragile before. He’d reveled in the glimpses of softness that had slowly revealed themselves, more and more as the months had passed—the gentle slope of Jon’s shoulders and the tilt of his head, the barely-there brush of his fingers, the trailing velvet of his voice. Martin knew Jon didn’t have as many hard edges as he thought he did, once. And certainly they were no barrier at all after Jon let you past them. But Martin had never thought of Jon as something that could _break._

It was jarring to realize it now. Just how _small_ Jon looked, swallowed by the bed, still apart from the shallow rise and fall of his chest, his breaths rattling with every, aching movement. Martin reached out to cover his hand with his own, tracing the delicate tendons under his skin.

It was the only part of him Martin could touch without fear of hurting him. Unbidden, Basira’s words from the night before ran through his mind, spoken through grit teeth. _Definitely broken ribs. Might be a dislocated shoulder, and—shit. That’s a spiral fracture. Knee looks shot. We need to set this, now._

Martin had felt panicked, more so with the way Jon’s hand tightened in his and his breathing sped up. _W-What do I—?_

 _Keep him still. Upright so he can breathe better._ She’d sighed then, a rough, exhausted thing. _This is gonna hurt._

Martin didn’t think he’d ever forget the sound Jon made, when Basira had wrenched his leg back into place. The way Jon had stiffened, his rattling breath catching, his fingers gripping Martin’s arm and his face buried in the curve of Martin’s neck and shoulder. Martin remembered murmuring nonsense, useless words that couldn’t have been comforting, his hand cradling the back of Jon’s head as he went slack in Martin’s arms. 

He remembered the way Tim had looked on, hollowly, from where he was slumped against the wall opposite, splatters of Sasha’s blood drying on his cheek. Tim had fought hard against Basira at first, spitting curses and clawing at the bracket of her arms, ignoring her warnings—

_Stop! She’s gone, Tim, and if you follow her, the Stranger will have you—_

_Let me go! Let me go—_

_Tim—_

_Get off me!_ He’d cried, something ragged and awful in his voice. _I’m not leaving her out there!_

When the fight left him, tears sliding down his cheeks, it was almost worse than the screaming had been.

Martin looked up, blinking tiredly out of his thoughts when the door opened, and Basira appeared. She looked at Jon first, shadows stark under her eyes, then at Martin. “You should get some rest,” she told him wearily.

Martin looked back at Jon’s hand, slender, delicate. It did not so much as twitch under his touch. Colder than Martin remembered it, from Jon’s gentle touches to his shoulder, and his cheek, when he thought Martin wouldn’t notice. “I’m fine here.”

Basira sighed roughly. “Martin—”

“How’s Melanie?” he asked her instead. 

He could feel her looking at him, shrewd, but knew she would latch onto the next question. She’d already tried to get him to leave Jon’s side a few hours ago, when he’d fallen asleep and nearly fallen out of his chair. 

“She’s come to, once or twice. Sleeping now. Tried to get her not to, seeing as she probably has a concussion,” she said techily, “but she just snapped at me and grumbled she’d had worse.”

Martin blew out a breath. “So she didn’t...?”

Basira raised a brow. “Try to stab me?” she guessed. Martin winced, but nodded, and she confirmed, “no. She didn’t. Definitely not happy, but not murderous so,” she said, sighing again. “That’s something.”

“Good,” Martin murmured, “that’s good. And Tim, is...is he still...” Martin trailed off, every adjective he could think of sitting heavy in his throat. Listless? Devastated? Shattered? Martin swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, the guilt that rose up in him even as he tried desperately to forget it. “How is he?” Martin asked instead.

“Still not talking. Got into the liquor again before I could stop him, but...I figure if that’s the only thing keeping him from running after her, then so be it.”

Martin glanced at her, worry churning in his gut. “Has he tried again?”

“Not yet,” she said frankly, “but he might. I’ve told Daisy to look out for it just in case.”

Martin nodded, his gaze drawn back to Jon. He was so very still. Martin meant to ask another question about Tim, but what came out of his mouth was “how long did it take Jon to heal after Melanie stabbed him?”

Basira’s stare was a weighty thing. “He’ll heal.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Martin said hoarsely.

Basira was silent for a long time, long enough Martin thought she wasn’t going to answer. Finally, she said simply, “it didn’t take this long.”

Those five words shattered him like a blow, wrenching the breath from his lungs. “Right,” he managed, after a long silence.

Basira sighed. “Martin—” she began, but she cut off abruptly, eyes narrowing when there was a distant sound, like a creaking. “You heard that?”

Martin nodded, watching as she went back into the hall, then wincing when she burst into a string of curses. “He’s trying to slip out again,” she said, poking her head back into the room. “Daisy’s out there, shouldn’t let him get far.” She pointed an index finger at him. “Stay here.”

“But—”

“Stay,” she growled, pointing her finger at the floor. “You didn’t have a problem with that before.”

She strode away before he could argue further. He supposed she was right. He still couldn’t imagine leaving Jon’s side. 

He wasn’t sure how much time passed, as he watched for any movement, any inclination that Jon was getting better. The only thing that filled the silence was the rattle of Jon’s breathing, short and pained. 

Until it wasn’t. 

“He does sound quite awful, doesn’t he?” a familiar voice drawled behind him.

Martin stiffened, jolting up out of his chair and whirling around. Helen looked back at him, a smug smile on her face. “You all put on _quite_ the show last night,” she said. “I did think the finale was a bit anticlimactic, though.”

Martin placed a steadying hand on the bed behind him, acutely aware of how vulnerable Jon was to all of Helen’s very sharp edges. “Please,” he said, “leave me alone.”

Helen laughed, the sound of it bouncing against the walls. “Oh, so very polite, now,” she said delightedly. “You know, I think this is the closest we’ve come to being _alone_ with each other, Martin.”

“I’m not alone,” Martin grit out, an instinctive argument.

“Aren’t you?” Helen asked, raising a brow. “Well, let’s see. Basira’s gone. Tim’s gone. Sasha—oh, Sasha is most _certainly_ gone. Melanie’s unconscious. And your Archivist has crumpled like paper. So,” she said, grinning, “I’d say that’s close enough, wouldn’t you?”

Martin glared at her, and didn’t respond, even as his heart pounded and dread twisted his stomach. 

She tilted her head at him, spiral eyes scanning his face. “Does the loneliness feel familiar, I wonder?” she said, almost to herself. 

He blinked at her. “What?”

Her smile curled. “Nothing, darling. It’s not my place to help you find where the pieces fit.”

“Then _what do you want?”_ Martin asked, his voice clipped and cold. 

Helen looked back at him, unimpressed. Her eyes flitted to Jon, and the subject abruptly changed. “Did you know that, had he struck the ground a _tad_ bit harder, one of his ribs might have punctured his heart?” She looked at Martin again. “Shame really. This whole thing could’ve been over in a few bloody seconds.”

Martin’s breath caught at the very thought, and the way Helen had looked at Jon, like it was all she could do to keep from slashing his throat where he lay. 

Jon had said, ages ago, that she wouldn’t risk hurting any of them. Wouldn’t risk incurring the wrath of the Eye, but...with Jon struggling to heal behind him, Martin was really wondering just how much power the Eye had left, anymore. 

The choice was clear, then. Martin reached his hand back a little further until it covered Jon’s own, for a moment, before straightening and meeting Helen’s eyes. “Do you like tea?” he asked her.

Helen’s brows drew together and she tilted her head at him, staring. Finally, she said, “I’m more for coffee, really.”

“Fine,” he said, moving to brush past her to the door. “We have that as well.” He looked back at her when she failed to move, just staring at him as if he was a particularly fascinating insect. “Coming?” he asked mildly.

Her grin slowly widened. “Room getting too cramped for you?” she asked. Her eyes drifted back to Jon. “The bed really does take up too much space, doesn’t it? I could change that, rearrange the layout a bit,” she said, a razor sharp finger snagging on the bed sheets, far, far too close to Jon. 

Martin’s heart thumped wildly, mingled with fury and fear, and again, it was like something wrenched it’s way out of him, something that wasn’t all _him._ Gold bled at the edges of his vision, and he heard himself say, “ ** _come with me. Now._** ” 

The smile dropped from Helen’s face. Her expression twitched, flashing with something like incredulity and anger and...fear. The smile returned quickly, plastered-on and false, unlike before. “My, my,” she said, taking a step towards him. “You’re getting better at that, aren’t you?” Martin didn’t bother to answer her, merely watched, jaw locked, as she moved to pass him in the doorway. She paused there, looking down at him. “A word of advice,” she said, her voice deceptively light, a contrast to the cold fury in her eyes, “I wouldn’t get too carried away with that. Well-fed monsters aren’t so easily suggestible.”

“Noted,” Martin said. He inclined his head toward the hallway. “After you.”

The silence in which they walked was anything but comfortable. Martin decided to break it when they were almost to the kitchens. “What did you mean,” he asked, “when you said this all could have been over?”

Helen looked at him flatly. “Really, Martin. Is it not obvious? Why do you think the NotThem went _straight_ for Jon, instead of escaping like it clearly wanted to?”

The glint of that knife raised above Jon flashed in his memory. The terror in that moment, the fear that he’d lose Jon forever, in an instant, was fresh like a wound. “It wanted to kill him.”

Helen sighed, muttering something under her breath, before saying, “ _yes._ Why?”

Martin glared at her, a scathing retort on the tip of his tongue, before he remembered. He nearly stopped in his tracks. “Oh. Oh. The—the statement. That fourth statement about the book, left by the Web.”

“About the farmer, yes.”

“He used the book,” Martin remembered, “filled it with his fear of the Corruption, a-and then—”

“And then he _died,_ ” Helen said, grinning, “rather poetically, before he could figure out how to use the fear in the book himself. And then...?”

“And the Corruption’s influence was unleashed,” Martin breathed. “Consuming nearly the whole town. Oh. _Oh._ ”

“Exactly,” Helen said. “So, let’s just say, _hypothetically,_ of course, you were playing with higher stakes, and instead of just one man’s fear trapped in the book you were dealing with the all-consuming fear of a whole ritual, and there was just _one_ person standing in the way of all that fear being released.” Helen’s grin was a fearsome thing to behold. “What do you think might happen then?”

Martin could barely hear her over the roaring in his ears. “If Jon dies, the world ends. The Stranger wins. That’s why the NotThem went straight for him.”

“Bingo,” Helen grinned. “And now that the NotThem is out there...well. I guarantee that information is no longer limited to you or I.”

Martin reeled, his thoughts catching on the knife that had hovered over Jon’s chest, how close it had come to tearing into him. The knife that he had used, that he had carried with him, that he had given to her, so, really, it was all his fault, his fault, his _fault—_

Martin wrenched his eyes shut, forcibly cutting off the tidal wave of his thoughts. “So...I can just keep him safe—”

“You can,” Helen said, “for now. But you can’t keep him safe from that part of the Stranger inside him, eating away at him piece by piece.” She shrugged. “It’ll kill him too. Eventually.”

Martin pressed a hand against the sudden ache in his chest. “So what do I do?” he couldn’t help but ask, helplessly.

“You’ve asked me this question before,” Helen quipped. 

“I can force you to tell me—” Martin started, but before he could, Helen’s hand moved and her razor sharp fingertip was at his throat. 

“Try that again,” she said, that smile still on her face, “and I will slit you down the middle. Do you understand?”

“The Eye might kill you for it,” Martin pointed out, careful of moving too much around the pinprick pressure at his throat. 

“It will be _worth_ it,” she said, and though there was a possibility she was lying, the look in her eyes told Martin he shouldn’t test her further. 

“Fine,” he said. Then, tightly, “I’m sorry.”

She looked at him for a moment more, before her finger dropped. Martin drew in a deeper breath, rubbing at his throat. 

“I will tell you this,” Helen said, “Because I like you.”

“You just threatened to kill me!” Martin spluttered.

“And? I don’t do that for just anybody.”

Martin snorted in disbelief, shaking his head. “I don’t understand you.”

“That’s rather the point, darling,” she said, her smile returned. “You want to know what to do? Martin, the answer is simple. Do _something.”_

Martin stared at her, scoffing when nothing else was forthcoming. “Oh, gee, thanks, I never would have thought of that without your help—”

“Clearly not,” she interrupted, “because, from my vantage point, Martin, you’ve chosen to do nothing. You’ve chosen to ignore that the Web’s chosen you. You’ve failed to make a move, and the Stranger _has_ made one _,_ and it almost cost you dearly. You can’t win,” she said, “if you don’t _play_ the _game._ ” 

“How can I play the game,” Martin grit out, “if I don’t know the rules?”

Helen stared at him, and then burst into laughter, a grating, echoing sound. “Martin, darling,” she said, actually wiping at her eyes, “you are the only one of us with the _rulebook._ ” She smiled at him, eyes bright. “Figure out how to open it.”

Martin stared at her, his mouth working soundlessly. What did that even mean? He didn’t have a-a rulebook, he had no idea what he was doing. Unless...

Unless there was a way to know _exactly_ what he was supposed to do.

He thought of the Web and Annabelle Cane. Of threads that were woven and not yet woven. 

He thought of seeing things that were yet to happen, and how useful that could be if he had any control at all over it.

He blinked out of his thoughts when heard voices outside, coming closer. Helen sighed, sporting an exaggerated frown. “Suppose we’ll have to get coffee another time, love.” 

Before Martin could decide what to say to that, a door appeared in the floor and opened into it, swallowing Helen away. It swung shut, just as the doors of the entrance opened, revealing a haggard Basira and Tim. 

Tim pushed away from Basira as soon as they entered, stumbling on his feet. Martin reached out to steady him, but flinched back when Tim shot him the most scathing look he’d ever seen on him. The wood from his marionette arms had spread from just the short time he’d spent outside, creeping up the side of his face like Basira.

Basira’s looked worse as well, gleaming wood crawling into her hairline and disappearing into her hijab on her right side, crowding at the corner of her eye. 

Martin’s concern tumbled out of him, a breathless flow of words. “Are you alright—?”

“Peachy,” Tim sneered, his breath reeking of vodka. “Or haven’t you been paying attention?”

Before Martin could think of anything to say in reply, Tim shouldered past him. “Tim—“

“Let him go,” Basira said. “Better him storming off in here than out there.”

Martin looked back at him, catching sight of him just as he stalked around the corner. Martin thought about the crooked smile Tim had reserved just for Sasha, and how sharply it contrasted with the flat line of his mouth now, and the paleness of his face. He thought of what could have happened, had Basira taken longer to find him. Thought of puppets with achingly familiar faces. “We should lock the doors,” Martin said distantly, “make sure he won’t be able to slip out again.”

“Maybe,” Basira said tiredly, after a moment.

“You don’t think so?” Martin asked her.

She shrugged. “I think...I think he’s realized he won’t last long enough out there to reach her.”

Martin swallowed around the lump in his throat, looking back at the hall where Tim had gone. Guilt burned a hole into his stomach. “Oh,” he said.

Basira didn’t bother to say anything in reply.

* * *

Martin wasn’t sure how long his vigil had lasted. He counted time in the twitches of Jon’s fingers, in the changes in his breathing. It was long enough that Melanie had stopped in, looking for all the world as if her head hadn’t been bashed into the floor a few hours earlier. 

“It’ll take more than that to do me in,” she’d said, when Martin asked after it, waving away his concern. “Still enough Slaughter in me to keep me going.” Her eyes had shifted to Jon. “He’s still...?”

“Yeah,” Martin had answered, an awful weight in the whispered word. 

“He’ll be fine,” she’d said, a hand dropping to his shoulder. “Jon always is. Like a bad penny.”

The huff of a laugh wasn’t much, but was real enough. “That’s not quite the right expression.”

She’d sighed and lightly slapped the back of his head. 

“Ow.”

“You know what I mean, Martin.” Then, softer, “he’ll be fine.”

It was harder to believe that, as the hours tracked on. 

It was harder, after so many hours had passed, to realize that Jon’s breathing was slowly evening out. 

It was harder, then, to realize that the movement he saw—caught from between the gaps of his fingers where he’d pressed his face into his hands—was _real_ , and not a product of his fevered hopes.

He looked up, heart pounding, to see Jon’s eyes blinking open, bright and beautiful, as he shifted up. “Jon! Jesus, Jon, don’t move so much, you’ll hurt yourself—”

“Martin,” Jon said, blinking at him, his eyes raking over his face. He’d paused in an attempt to sit up, which didn’t look entirely comfortable. Martin tried to guide him to lay down again, but Jon waved his hand away. “No, it’s—I think I’m alright now.” At Martin’s dubious look, Jon slowly sat up all the way, taking a cautiously slow deep breath. His eyes narrowed a bit. “Hm. A little sore, but nothing a few more hours won’t fix.”

“You’re okay,” Martin said, breathless with the thought.

“Yes, I think so—” He cut off with a slight ‘oof’ sound when Martin threw his arms around him. Martin pressed close, entranced by the feeling of Jon’s chest rising up and down easily and the steady beat of his heart. He closed his eyes when Jon’s arms slowly wrapped around him, his palms twin points of burning warmth at Martin’s back. Martin hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until the last of his worry drained out of him, leaving him boneless and tired and so very relieved he could cry with it. 

Martin dropped his head on Jon’s shoulder, and said, muffled, “please don’t do that again.”

Jon took what felt like a slightly shaky breath, his arms pulling Martin just the slightest bit closer. “I’ll try not to,” he said, a little hoarsely. Jon pulled back, looking Martin over. “And—and you, you’re...?”

“I’m okay,” Martin told him, though something of his exhaustion must have been in his voice or on his face, because tension returned to Jon’s shoulders.

“You—is Melanie—?”

“She’s alright,” Martin said, a quick but genuine smile quirking on his face. “She’s got a hard head.”

Jon didn’t laugh, though, and it was because the next words out of his mouth were “and Sasha, she...she hasn’t...?”

Martin swallowed, his eyes dropping away. “She’s still out there.”

Jon breathed out shakily, his shoulders dropping. “Oh. Right.”

Martin studied his hands in his lap, and tried not to think about the knife, or what the NotThem had whispered to him. _I always knew you’d let me out._ Trying to push it out of his mind only made the thoughts louder. He thought he could drown in the guilt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, in the heavy silence between them.

He could feel Jon’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to look up and meet them. And then, Jon reached out and took Martin’s hand, his thumb brushing over his knuckles, and Martin was entranced by the point of contact. It was only Jon saying his name in that soft way of his, like his name was something to be cradled, that got him to look up again. “This isn’t anyone’s fault,” Jon said, squeezing his hand. 

Martin looked back at him, feeling ancient, and wished it was easier to believe him.

* * *

They found the others in the library. He supposed it was only fitting, that everyone would drift back there. It was the last place they’d all been together, before—

Before. 

Tim, from his seat at the window, took one look at Martin and Jon entering, eyes dropping to their still clasped hands, and scoffed, loud like a gunshot in the silence. He turned his attention back to the window and said nothing else. 

Basira had a book open in her lap but wasn’t reading it, appearing lost in thought. Melanie was the first to speak, her eyes flitting from Martin to Jon. “You alright?”

Jon nodded, as he and Martin settled on the sofa across from her. “Fine now. More or less.”

“Took you long enough,” Melanie said, but it was tinged with concern rather than annoyance. 

Jon didn’t say anything in reply. Martin looked at him and Jon caught his gaze, and Jon squeezed his hand again, a wordless reassurance. 

“Jon,” Basira said, her voice hushed, “what...what are we going to do?”

Martin was close enough to Jon that he could hear him swallow dryly, could hear his breath catch. But before Jon could say anything in reply, Tim laughed, an utterly humorless sound. “You think he knows?” Tim asked flatly. 

“Tim—” Basira started, but Tim’s voice came again, even colder.

“No, you know what? I have a question he might actually be able to answer.” Martin saw his chest heave up and down in a steadying breath, his expression shuttering, before he asked, “is she alive?”

In the silence that followed, Martin could hear nothing but the dull beating of his heart in his ears. 

Jon began, after a moment, “the NotThem won’t kill her, Tim, it needs her—”

“I didn’t ask you to _speculate,_ Jon,” Tim snapped, his expression twisted in anger and barely concealed grief. “I want you to know. To see if she’s alive.”

Jon hesitated, his eyes dropping away from Tim. Martin studied him, worry churning in his gut. Could Jon even do that at this stage? What if...what if he pushed himself too hard, what would happen then? “Tim, I don’t think—” Martin started, but Tim shot a glare at him that could wither away paint.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Martin, was I?”

“Leave him alone,” Jon snapped back at him, eyes narrowed. 

Tim stared at him for a moment, before laughing again, shaking his head and looking back out the window. “Course it would take a looming apocalypse,” Tim grumbled, and then, more loudly he said, “suppose it’s good to know you’re utterly useless now, Jon—”

“Give me _a moment_ ,” Jon grit out, his eyes narrowed further into slits. “You think I’ll be able to see anything if you don’t let me focus?”

“Jon?” Martin asked worriedly.

Jon squeezed his hand again, but didn’t look at him. Before Martin could ask what Jon thought he was doing, it was clear he was _already_ doing so, his eyes flashing brighter and his body going tense. 

Martin and everyone else in the room watched, tense, for the next few seconds. Finally, Jon jolted, his eyes blinking back to normal, breaths coming in harsh pants that couldn’t have been very pleasant on his freshly healed ribs. Martin reached out, placing an arm on his shoulder in an attempt to steady him. Shakily, Jon pressed the back of a hand to his face and it came away bloody.

“ _Jon?”_ Martin gasped out, taking his arm and trying to study his face. Of course, he couldn’t see anything, he could _never_ see anything—

“‘M fine,” Jon said, a little dazedly. “Just a bloody nose.”

“Jon—”

“Well?” Tim asked, his voice tight. “Is she—?”

“She’s alive,” Jon said, and it was like a collective weight on everyone’s shoulders was lifted. 

Tim’s eyes closed and he took a visible breath. He nodded, a tiny bit of tension leaving his shoulders. His face turned away, but Martin could just see his reflection in the window, the way the moonlight glinted on the sheen in his eyes. “You know,” Tim said, so softly it was almost hard to hear, “I don’t even know if that’s better or worse.” A pang lanced through Martin’s heart. “Are they...are they going to keep her alive? After the Stranger wins?”

Not if. After, as if it was a certainty at this point. Martin barely heard Jon’s answer, a sigh of “I can’t see the future, Tim.”

“No,” Tim said after a moment. “ _You_ can’t.” His eyes drifted to Martin.

Martin’s mouth went dry with panic, and Jon stiffened beside him. “Tim—” Jon began, but Tim didn’t seem to hear him.

“You know,” Tim said, his voice so light it was dangerous, “it’s really rather remarkable. How little you’ve done, all this time.”

“ _Tim—_ ” Jon said again, an uncharacteristic fury making its way into his voice, but Tim just continued, louder, “we’ve made no progress. At all. The book just spews out more and more of the Stranger, and we can’t channel an ounce of it to save our own skins, to undo the fucking mess that _you_ caused,” he said, his eyes boring into Jon, before settling back on Martin. “In fact, since you came along, I’d say things have been worse.”

“Tim—”

“I heard what the NotThem said to you, Martin,” Tim said, as the blood in Martin’s veins turned to ice, and the air evaporated from the room. “And we all saw what you did to it, how you compelled it. So. Care to call on the Web and enlighten us all? Tell us what we’re supposed to do for their little song and dance?”

Martin’s breath left his lungs, his mind reeling. He had been so sure Tim didn’t know. He’d only told Jon and Sasha about the Web and the strings and the flashes of events that hadn’t happened yet. “How—how did you—?”

“What? Thought Basira and I wouldn’t figure it out? That you’re with the Web? With your weird as fuck dreams and the way you just stare off into space sometimes, like you can see things we can’t?” Tim pushed away from the window frame, stalking closer, his expression twisted into a scowl. Martin glanced at Basira, who was avoiding his eyes. “Annabelle knew what was coming,” Tim said darkly, “so it stands to reason you would, too. Care to share?”

“Tim,” Melanie growled, her eyes narrowed, “back off. Right now.”

Tim glanced at her, then did a double take, scanning over her expression, his own shuttering. “Oh, so you knew too?” His eyes snapped back to Martin. “So it was just Basira and I you didn’t want to tell?”

Martin scrambled for something to say, his voice trembling when he finally found the words. “It—it wasn’t—”

“Maybe that was smart,” Tim continued over him, his eyes cold, “on the Web’s part. Because if Basira knew what you were from the beginning she’d have killed you the moment you—”

“Tim!” Basira snapped, sounding as furious as Martin had ever heard her, as Jon grit out, “I will give you one chance to leave this room yourself, Tim. Now.”

A muscle in Tim’s jaw ticked as he stared Jon down, fury in every tense line of his body. His eyes dropped to Jon’s hand, still holding Martin’s, a grip so tight it was almost painful. When Tim looked up at him again, his eyes were cold. Deceptively soft, he said, “do you think that’s the Web too—?”

“There’s a reason,” Jon said lowly, “Sasha didn’t tell you what Martin told us. Maybe even she hated you, when you’re like this.”

Tim went very still for a moment, before he was lunging forward toward Jon, fist raised. Melanie moved first, grabbing his arm and yanking him back, and then Basira was shouting, trying to pull them apart, and Tim was hurling curses at Jon like swinging fists. 

It felt like Martin was watching it all through a cloud, his breath thin in his lungs, his vision blurring. Jon stood up, his fingers slipping out of Martin’s, and Martin felt hollow. 

“ ** _Enough,_** ” Jon said lowly. The three of them stopped, even as he was staring at Tim. “ ** _Get out, Tim. Now._** ”

Tim went stiff, glaring, before turning without a word and stalking out of the library, the doors banging against the wall with the force that he opened them. 

As soon as he’d left, Jon swayed, pressing a hand to his head. Martin got to his feet immediately, reaching for him. “Jon?”

“I’m fine,” was the reply, instinctive. Jon looked at him. Martin tried not to feel pathetically relieved when Jon reached out and took his hand again. 

He could feel Basira and Melanie watching them, as Jon reached up and cupped Martin’s cheek, his thumb brushing just under his cheekbone. “Are...are you...?”

“I’m tired,” Martin said, on an exhale. It was the only thing he could say that was true. Because he wasn’t alright. Far from it. Tim’s words rang in his ears, and he knew if he told Jon that Jon would just try to reassure him, assure him none of it was true, even if it was, even if it was his fault, his fault, his _fault—_

“It’s late,” Jon said softly, after a moment. “Do you want to—”

“Yes,” Martin breathed, without thinking. 

He didn’t look too long at Melanie or Basira before leaving with Jon. He caught Melanie’s eye for a moment, and felt overwhelmed by the clear concern he saw there. 

He didn’t deserve it, and it ate at him. 

When they climbed the stairs, they passed by the Archive, its doors open slightly. Martin could just see the book at the middle of the room, an ominous centerpiece. He stopped in his tracks before fully realizing he had, Jon taking a step further before realizing and stopping as well. 

_Play the game._

_The only one with a rulebook._

Martin closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he could see the golden strings that spread from the book, arching high, curving out from it like an insect’s legs, with the book as a body. Like an arachnid. 

“Martin?” Jon asked softly.

Martin blinked, and the strings disappeared. He looked back at Jon, whose eyes were narrowed slightly, concern radiating off him in waves. “Sorry,” Martin said, the image of those golden strings burning in his mind. “Just thinking.”

Jon looked at him for a moment longer before they continued on. Martin could tell he wanted to say something, to talk about what had gone on in the library, but with every glance over at Martin he seemed to decide to hold onto the words. 

Martin was grateful to walk in silence, for the moment. Grateful not to give voice to his guilt. 

Grateful that he didn’t have to admit that he could feel the light from those strings at his back, calling him, stretching out behind him like the legs of a spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late, it got way longer than it was supposed to because Helen got more screen time than she should have, because I love her
> 
> And now...we have the return of S3 angry Tim, who, ngl, can be really scary 
> 
> Martin.......what are you thinking about doing Martin....
> 
> Thoughts? Theories? Concerns? Incoherent sobbing?


	22. The Velvet Touch of Your Hands

Martin thought he could get used to sleeping next to Jonathan Sims. He imagined waking up to him in the morning, all sleep-loose limbs and blinking eyes and soft fabric. He wondered what it would have been like, if they didn’t have the fate of the world hanging over their heads, if he’d met Jon when things were normal and easy and safe. How he might’ve woken up to Jon then, and studied his features slack in sleep with the reverence reserved for pieces of art, built to be beautiful. 

Martin imagined, in that world, he’d be able to burrow into the space between Jon’s arms and his chest, and press an easy kiss to his cheek. He’d be able to cup Jon’s face and just look until his eyes ached from fatigue and not some sinister curse. 

Jon shifted at Martin’s side, turning closer. His arm snaked over Martin’s chest, his hand resting lightly above Martin’s heart. Slowly, cautious not to jostle Jon too much, Martin placed his hand on top of his. Jon breathed out next to him, so deeply it was almost a sigh, and made a little shuffling noise into his pillow. 

His heart ached. It would have been so easy to let himself press into Jon’s embrace, to let himself melt away into that warmth, if not for the guilt that sat at the base of his throat, welling up from his stomach. 

It kept him up. Kept him from slipping into sleep when Jon did.   
  
He missed Sasha so deeply it was like an ache in itself, and he felt guilty for missing her because it was his fault she was gone. He couldn’t help but think she’d know what to do, with her calm, easy logic and her kind smiles.

He couldn’t help but think of her now, alone amongst the Stranger’s monsters.

And he couldn’t help but see those golden strings every time he closed his eyes, waiting for him. Everything Tim and Helen and the NotThem had said sounded again and again in his mind, a cacophony that grew louder and louder. 

He studied the ceiling beams in the dark, his hand curling over Jon’s, trying to anchor himself with its warmth. 

_I always knew you’d let me out._

_Care to call on the Web and enlighten us all?_

_Do_ something. _Play the game._

Martin blew out a breath that shook, going still when Jon shifted at his side again. He studied the slant of Jon’s shoulder, the way Jon slept soundlessly next to him, a display of utter trust that still took his breath away if he thought about it too deeply. 

Usually, Jon didn’t move much beyond the easy rise and fall of his chest, didn’t make much noise. Martin had asked him once about his nightmares. When Martin had woken up in the Archive in a cold sweat, after dreaming of Jane Prentiss and the Corruption filling him with holes. Jon had been there, then, steady and familiar. 

Jon had said his nightmares were always the same, and he’d grown so used to them by this point that they felt more like dreams. _He_ wasn’t the one tormented in them, Jon had explained, even though Martin had taken one look at the tense line of his shoulders and thought that didn’t seem quite true. 

Looking at him now, Martin wondered if Jon had any nightmares about the Stranger. Nightmares about what was happening out in the world, nightmares about what _would_ happen. 

Would Martin have nightmares like that? Nightmares about things that would happen,—would _really_ happen—if he chose the Web? He’d already felt what it could be like, when he’d traced the string of the kettle in the kitchen, or when he’d brushed the fading warmth of Jon’s touch on the back of his hand. He thought of his dreams of the Lonely, and wondered...were they memory? Or something worse, something waiting to happen?

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden flash of light, and when he looked to it, he saw a familiar, humanoid figure, wreathed in gold, at the foot of the bed. 

Martin moved very slowly to sit up, gently guiding Jon’s hand to rest beside him, his heart hammering. Jon shifted again, making a small noise that might’ve been discontent, but didn’t wake up. 

Though the figure didn’t have any distinct features in the overblown light, Martin thought it was looking at him, expectant. 

“What do you want?” Martin asked, hushed. 

The figure looked at him, then at the door, then back at him. 

Martin slowly shook his head. “No,” he murmured, “no, I’m not...” He trailed off, glancing down at Jon and wondering if he should wake him up. 

When he glanced up again, the figure was gone, and Martin caught a flash of golden light under the closed door before it faded away. Martin sat, paralyzed for a moment, staring at the door. 

_Care to call on the Web and enlighten us all?_

_Do_ something.

Martin screwed his eyes shut, taking a trembling breath. “Fuck,” he whispered, “Fuck, okay.” He looked at Jon, at his side, letting himself just look, for a moment. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured, brushing a gentle touch over Jon’s arm. Jon didn’t stir. 

Carefully, his heart in his throat, Martin slipped out of the bed and padded silently to the door. It swung open silently, and with one final look at Jon, Martin buried the overwhelming urge to return to the bed. 

He needed answers. He needed to do _something._ He needed to know what he was supposed to do, and the Web...the Web could tell him. 

He slipped into the hall and closed his eyes, focusing on the slight pull he could feel at his chest, just over his heart. He followed it, stopping only when it led him to the double doors of the Archive. Martin stared at the ornate handles and then the crack in between the doors, and the golden light he could see in the room beyond. 

When he opened the doors, the golden figure was there, waiting for him. It stood just in front of the book at the center of the room, those strings branching out from it like legs, and, just for a moment, they looked like they sprouted from the figure’s back.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Martin asked as he approached. Moonlight lit the room through the windows, but seemed dim in comparison to the gold. “You woke me up, that night that the NotThem escaped.” He could still remember the feeling, that slight tug on his chest that pulled him from sleep.

The figure didn’t answer, just _looked._

“Why?” Martin asked, voice trembling. “I—I could have been there with him when it happened, I-I could have...I could have done something.”

The figure didn’t say anything, but did turn, moving in a way that was almost a glide along the floor. It stopped just behind the book and its pedestal, looking up at him. The figure looked down at the book and then at him. 

Martin took a shaky breath, steeling himself, and crossed the room. He stopped on the other side of the pedestal, close enough to the glass display surrounding the book that he could have reached out and touched it. Close enough, now, to the golden figure that he could see slight shadows on its face, areas where the light was not so bright that, once, could have made up eyes, a nose, a mouth. Distant remnants of a human being. 

“You spoke to me once,” Martin said to it, “months ago. In the kitchen. You warned me away from the Eye.” Martin stared, his jaw set, but the figure did nothing but stare back at him from across the pedestal. “Why don’t you speak now? What do you _want—_?”

_I cannot._

The words weren’t so much spoken as felt, vibrating through a string that flashed between them and sinking into Martin’s chest, echoing in the hollows between his ribs. Martin pressed a hand over his sternum, chest heaving, eyes wide. “Why not?” 

The figure looked down at its hands and it, for a moment, flickered, like the light of a candle. Martin’s breath caught, his eyes scanning over the figure, as he processed. He remembered that night, in the kitchen, the figure had spoken and then disappeared almost immediately after, as if snuffed out of existence. “It’s hard for you to stay if you do?” Martin surmised.

The figure looked back at him and, slowly, as if hesitant, nodded once. 

Martin sighed. “Right. Sure.” He looked down at the book, at how it looked so much more smeared and dirtied with ink than when he’d first come to the estate. The rhyme on the page was nearly illegible, but that didn’t matter. Martin knew it by heart, now. 

It still drew his gaze, even now. The threads that branched from it sang to him, urged him to touch. Urged him to see and know and feel.

“If...if I do this,” he said, looking up at the figure, “what’s going to happen to me?”

Slowly, the figure pointed to him, then ran that same hand through the threads that arched from the book, dragging through them like water. 

Martin watched the way the strings shivered at the touch, their light refracting, before the figure lowered their arm back to their side. 

“I’ll be of the Web? Like you?” Martin asked.

The figure shook its head. 

“Like Annabelle, then?” Martin asked.

The figure looked back at him, still. It was confirmation enough. Martin took a trembling breath at the thought, closing his eyes. When he looked up, the figure was still there, still staring at him. 

“Who are you?” Martin couldn’t help but ask again, helplessly. “What happened to you?”

After a moment, the figure moved, pressing a hand over their heart and then slowly drawing out a glowing thread, pulling it between their fingers. They reached out, over the pedestal, and paused about an inch from Martin’s chest. The figure looked at him, seemingly asking for permission. 

Martin took a steadying breath, and after deliberating, narrow-eyed, he nodded once. The other end of the string attached itself to Martin’s chest, and suddenly he was bombarded with a rush of feelings that were not his. An aching loss. A life cut short. The string felt...incomplete, as if peppered with holes, parts of it clouded over, missing. Huge expanses of time Martin couldn’t cross. There was a name that could not be remembered. And through it all a fury, a hatred that was so ingrained in the string it took Martin’s breath away. 

After what must have been just a moment, the figure moved in Martin’s periphery. It plucked the string out of its chest and the string dissipated, and the awful feeling that had taken hold of Martin released him in an instant, leaving him breathing heavily, his head spinning. “Oh,” Martin breathed, breathless from that pervasive pain and anger. “Oh god.” He looked up at the figure—the scrapped together bits of memory trying to hold on to personhood—horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

The figure looked away, to the side, for a moment, and it was a gesture that was so nearly human—looking away as if to gather themselves—it made Martin’s chest ache with the thought. Then, the figure looked back at the book, then at Martin.

“Right,” Martin murmured, his eyes dropping to the book again. He flexed his fingers at his sides, his mouth dry. “Right.” Gingerly, he pulled open the siding of the glass case, wincing as it creaked slightly in the pervasive quiet. There was no wind, not even the barest draft. But the pages of the book shivered all the same. 

Martin swallowed roughly. Would this work like the kettle? Or Jon’s fading touch at the back of his hand? Would it be all he had to do—to reach out and touch? 

He supposed there was only one way to find out. 

His hand hovered over the book for a moment, watching as the pages arched towards him slightly, those golden strings bending with the movement. He looked up at the figure once more, watching as they nodded, once, a slow, even movement. And then Martin placed his hand on the book. 

It was what he imagined it was like for Jon, when he tried to Know something. A wall, a wave of possibilities hit him with a force that would have knocked him off his feet if he was at all conscious of his body, anymore. Instead, he was lost along strings of gold, trying to follow and make sense of them, but there were so many, so _many_ choices they had yet to make. They were like roots, like a living pulsing thing, like—

Like a web. Every possibility and choice created a new branching path, a new pattern he tried desperately to follow. Every string sang to him, asking him to follow, and the temptation to know and explore every inch was so strong he almost forgot why he shouldn’t. The book had passed through so many hands, so many lives. He could explore them all, if he liked. Trace back their choices and their failings, find the points where they all went wrong, where few went right. And he could know what would be, see what their lives would entail—the ones that still lived. Natasha Summers—the woman who used the book to resurrect her mother, Adam Callahan—the one who’d died before he could release the fear left in the book, Jonathan Sims—who—

Jon. His mind clung to that string, to that name. Jon. _Jon._ He followed that path, Jon’s path, not backwards but forwards, tracing the golden string as it branched again, and again, and again.

His head ached with a pain that grew like a crescendo, but he didn’t feel it where he was. He saw flashes of things that hadn’t happened yet, and held to them. 

_A spot on the wall framed with gold._

_The cold ache of fog._

_A mug of tea._

_A thread tracing out of the estate._

Here, the path divulged, branching off into so many different directions, so many different _choices,_ and Martin tried to see all of them—had to, had to see which ones were _right—_

_Hospital—_

_Painted smile—_

_Fear, fear, fear—_

**_Jon—_ **

There was so much, so many paths pressing at him, calling him, humming louder and louder _and louder and_ **_louder—_**

Something pulled at him, yanking him back, severing his connection to the book. Reality flooded him with a vengeance. The sounds of someone’s voice, agitated, and the press of a body and arms around him paled in comparison to the agony in his head and the gold bleeding away at the edges of his vision. 

The darkness took him before he could even do so much as cry out.

* * *

Martin woke slowly in the comfort of a bed that was familiar. He blinked slowly up at the ceiling, taking stock. There was a heaviness to his head that was not pain, not anymore, but that might have been once. His throat was dry and ached. There was light streaming from the window. 

He turned his head slowly, looking to the right of the bed, and saw a familiar figure there, in a chair pulled up by the bed. He ran his eyes over the frame he knew so well. Jon was hunched over, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, looking tense enough that he could snap. Martin’s heart ached.

He shifted, his hand brushing against the sheets, intending to sit up. But instead, he blinked around a sudden flash of gold, and he was somewhere else. Or, _no. Not somewhere else. He was still in the bed, but the sheets were different, silkier, and it was dark, and there was..._

_There was someone else on the chair by the bed. The darkness shrouded them, but Martin could just make out the slouched posture and the eyes that looked back at him, unwavering and unreadable and blue._

_He felt a flood of unease. The space beside him on the bed had been cold, unoccupied for a while. Those eyes looked at him, the look in them distant, almost clinical. That...that wasn’t right. In a voice that was not his, he asked, trembling, “Jonah?”_

Martin blinked, and then it was Jon in the seat again, staring back at him wide-eyed, hands slowly lowering. “What did you call me?” Jon asked, a note of horror in his voice.

“I...” Martin began, his mouth working soundlessly. He glanced at the window, confirming it was again day, and his eyes caught on the room beyond. At the golden strings he could see branching from certain things in the room—Jon’s cardigan, back to him, the doorknob, stretching in several directions and through the walls. They were everywhere, glinting where ever he looked, gleaming, humming. He wasn’t even _trying_ to see them, they were just...there. Had always been, but now...now Martin could see them all. 

Martin looked back at Jon, anything he might’ve been about to say dying in his throat when he saw the state of the thread running between them. It was dim, and flickering, like a light in need of changing. Faint. “Sorry,” Martin murmured, distantly trying to answer Jon’s question, even though it seemed suddenly unimportant. He couldn’t take his eyes off that string between them. “I don’t...I don’t think I was talking to you.”

Why did it look like that? Was it because...because Jon was angry with him? It had looked dim before, when Martin had looked at it after they’d fought, but it—it had never looked like that, like something weak and clinging to life.

“Martin,” Jon said, as helpless as Martin had ever heard him, his eyes raking over Martin’s face, “you...I thought you didn’t want to—to further your connection with the Web?”

Martin looked up at him, his mouth working silently. “I didn’t,” he said finally. 

“So why _did_ you?” Jon asked.

“I...I couldn’t just do _nothing._ ”

“You—you weren’t doing _nothing—_ ”

“I think I have to do more than listen to some statements, Jon,” Martin told him, tiredly. He hesitated, thinking of the golden figure and his fog-filled dreams, then said, “I think there’s more to it than that. And...I couldn’t think of another way to help me figure it out.”

Jon sighed, looking down, and was quiet for a long time. Martin couldn’t help but let his eyes drift to the string between them. He couldn’t will the sight away, now. Couldn’t ignore it. He could only watch it flicker, and wonder why. 

“Yes,” Jon said finally, soft with something that sounded like exhaustion, “I know. There should have been enough statements by now. There’s something missing, and I don’t know what it is.” He scoffed, a dry humorless sound, and put his head in his hands. “I could have just Known the answer, before.”

“Jon,” Martin said softly, reaching out to place a hand on his knee, “I...I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jon said, almost automatically, but there was the slightest emphasis on the word _your_ that made Martin pause.

Martin frowned, reaching up to gently take one of Jon’s hands in his, drawing his gaze. “It’s not yours either.”

That scoff came again, an ugly parody of a laugh. “Isn’t it, though?” Jon said, his voice strained, looking back at him helplessly. “If—if I hadn’t read from the book in the first place—”

“You didn’t have a choice, Jon,” Martin reasoned, but Jon shook his head.

“No,” he said, “no, I did. I just thought—I thought I’d be able to...” Jon trailed off, sighing, before finishing quietly, “thought I’d be able to save everyone. Annabelle promised me everyone would still be alive, but...” He let out that noise again, less of a scoff and more of an almost-sob. “She also said there were worse fates than death. A-and now Sasha is gone, and you—“ He cut off, looking away, and Martin tried to ignore how his heart twisted. “Suppose I should’ve listened harder,” Jon said lowly.

Martin swallowed around the tightness of his throat, squeezing Jon’s hand. “Jon...”

Jon stared at their clasped hands for a moment, before bringing his other hand to cover Martin’s. He looked up at him, eyes searching, and asked, “are you alright? Really?”

Martin paused before answering, considering. The heaviness in his head had long faded away, and his throat was a little sore, but otherwise...he felt fine. Felt normal. A little distracted by the constant sheen of gold around him, but...normal. “I think so,” he murmured honestly. “But,” he added, and Jon looked at him sharply, “I, um. I can see all the strings now. All at once. A-and they’re not going away.”

Jon stared at him, eyes a little too wide, and didn’t say anything. Martin shifted, and asked cautiously, “what...what happened after I, um...?”

“Tim was the one who found you,” Jon said, his voice strained. “He said it—it looked like you were having a seizure, but you still wouldn’t let go of the book.”

“Oh,” Martin said back after a moment, reeling. “That...that sounds bad.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed weakly, after a moment of tense silence. 

Martin couldn’t quite bring himself to ask after it. Perhaps there had been another yelling match between them, given Jon’s hoarse voice. Maybe Melanie had stepped in again. Whatever had happened, he couldn’t imagine it had helped Tim’s paranoia.

“Did you learn anything?” Jon asked tersely.

Martin hesitated, thinking about the brief flashes he’d gotten. Thinking about the golden figure at the clouded over bits of their life, covered over like fog. “I think I’m closer to understanding,” Martin said, honestly. “But I don’t have the answer yet.”

Jon stared at him for a moment longer before nodding, his eyes dropping away. Martin couldn’t help the stab of worry he felt at that, his eyes dropping to the flickering string.

 _Jon hates the Web as much as Tim_ , that awful part of his mind crooned. _He won’t even look at you._

“Do I...” Martin trailed off for a moment, losing his resolve when Jon looked up at him. He took a breath and asked, a little shakily, “do I look any different?”

Jon searched his face for a moment, before admitting, “your eyes are different.”

Martin’s hands flew to his face before he could think twice, prodding his cheeks. “Oh, god, there are still just two of them, right?”

“What— _yes_ ,” Jon hastily assured, “yes, just two. It’s just, they’re...different. An amber color.”

“Oh,” Martin said, after a moment. His thoughts immediately went to Annabelle Cane, and her amber eyes, catching his gaze and keeping him there. He blinked far more consciously, trying to determine if he... _felt_ at all different, but there was nothing he could pinpoint that felt changed. He tried to shake away the feeling of trepidation. “Suppose that’s better than sprouting spider legs or something.”

Martin couldn’t see Jon’s answering expression at that, but the tone of his voice told him he might look a bit ill. “Please don’t joke about that, Martin.”

“Sorry,” Martin murmured, feeling a little amused despite himself. The small smile dropped from his face, though, when a thought struck him. Different eyes. He had different _eyes._

“Martin?” Jon pressed, noticing his change in expression, “are you—”

“Jon,” Martin asked breathlessly, “could —could I try to see you?”

Jon froze, staring back at him wordlessly. “I—I don’t...”

“Please,” Martin pressed, utterly taken with the idea. “What if—what if this is it? What if I can see you now, under the Stranger?”

Jon hesitated, leaning back in his chair, his eyes darting down at the ground then back up. “I...Do you think that’ll work?”

“I don’t know,” Martin admitted, “but isn’t it worth trying?”

Jon was quietly pensive for a moment more, in which Martin held his breath. Jon’s hands twisted nervously together, his eyes searching Martin’s face. Finally, he sighed, and slowly, his hands lifted to grip the edges of the hood. “You’ll tell me,” Jon said, “the moment it hurts too much.”

“Yes,” Martin answered, his heart pounding, hope flooding his veins.

Jon took a breath, his grip tightening on the fabric, and in one motion, he pulled it down onto his shoulders. 

It didn’t hurt. Not immediately. Jon’s face was just...hard to look at, like trying to look at the sun directly. His eyes wanted to skirt away, but he forced them still, tried to make out features in the staticky blur. He thought...he thought he could almost see shadows of them, like the outline of a nose, the ghost of a mouth. As soon as he pinned one down, the others disappeared, like—like he could see parts but not the whole. He narrowed his eyes, forcing himself to focus harder, maybe if he just—

Jon pulled the hood back up, and the dark swallowed up everything but his eyes. 

Martin blinked, indignant. “Jon, I wasn’t—I was still trying to—”

Wordlessly, Jon reached out and brushed Martin’s cheek, surprising him into silence. When Jon pulled his hand back, Martin saw the smear of red on the back of his index finger. 

“Oh,” he breathed, reaching up to brush his cheeks with his sleeve, wincing when they came away red. He blinked, realizing his eyes ached a little. “I didn’t notice.”

Jon was worryingly silent, his eyes on the floor, his shoulders a little too high to look relaxed. His hands were clasped together, knuckles white. 

“Jon...” Martin began, but Jon shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he said, taking a visible breath. “It’s fine, it’s...” Another breath. “I can’t imagine what you’d see anyway. Maybe what I used to be is gone.” Then, after a pause, in the most quietly honest tone, Jon admitted, “I don’t even remember what I look like, anymore.”

The admission knocked the breath out of Martin’s lungs, had tears welling up behind his eyes. “Oh, Jon.” It was a meager comfort to reach out and take Jon’s hands in his, but it was one of the only things he could do. He absently brushed his thumb over the back of Jon’s hands, searching for the right words, any comfort he could give him, when a thought struck him. He looked at Jon’s hands, studying the warmth of them under his fingers. 

What if...?

“Jon?” Martin asked, drawing his eyes away from the point of contact and meeting Jon’s, narrowed in question. “Could I try something?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Martin, I’m not going to let you do that again—”

“No, no,” Martin assured breathlessly, “not that. I promise, just...Jon, do you trust me?” 

Martin’s heart began to pound when Jon just blinked at him, realizing what a frightening question it was after the fact. He was well and truly of the Web now, and people didn’t trust the Web, for good reason. Maybe...maybe that was why the golden thread between them was in such a sorry state. Even Martin didn’t know if he trusted himself anymore, so of course Jon was—

“Yes,” Jon answered, soft and sure. “I do.”

Martin took a shaky breath, relief flooding his chest. “Oh. Okay. Good, um. Okay.” Martin gently lifted his hands from Jon’s, and traced the edges of the hood. 

“Martin,” Jon murmured, warningly. 

“I’m not going to look,” Martin told him, honestly. His fingers brushed the fabric, trembling slightly. “Can I...can I touch you?”

Jon looked back at him, eyes a little wide. Hoarsely, after a moment, he said, “yes.”

Martin met his eyes, taking a breath, before closing his own. He leaned closer, shifting to the edge of the bed, and gently pushed the hood back. Carefully, his hands moved in and found the sides of Jon’s face. 

Jon breathed in sharply at the contact, but stayed perfectly still. Martin was close enough that his breath just ghosted over his face, Jon’s knees resting between his. 

Martin waited for a moment, hoping he might catch a flash of something—an image of Jon in the past or a flash of the future, but nothing came. Perhaps that too was muted by the Stranger. 

But that wasn’t the only thing he could do. Martin’s fingers brushed over Jon’s skin gently. He traced the sharp line of his jaw with his fingers, the hollows of his cheeks, the swell of his cheekbones, describing as he went along. He went slowly, taking care to brush every feature. His voice was soft in the silence, barely louder than the sound of their breathing. 

He began at the edges of Jon’s face and worked his way in, his fingers brushing at Jon’s hairline, giving voice to the widow’s peak, the slant of his brows. His fingers carefully traced Jon’s fluttering eyelashes, the slope of his nose and the slight bend in it. His thumbs brushed over the swell of Jon’s mouth and his lips parted slightly, a catch of his breath drifting over Martin’s skin. His lips were soft and full and lovely, and Martin slowly pulled his hands away when Jon’s breath ghosted over his skin again, his heart hammering high in his throat. 

“There,” Martin murmured, breathless. “You’re there, Jon. You’re still under there.” 

Jon didn’t say anything in reply, and Martin could hear nothing but the sound of his breathing, a little uneven. They remained close enough that Martin could still feel the ghost of it on his face. He furrowed his brow slightly, his eyes still closed. “Jon...?” Martin asked, softly. “Are you—”

He broke off, breath punching out of his nose, when he felt the soft press of lips against his own. Every thought flew out of Martin’s head, his senses awhirl with the feeling of Jon’s hand on his cheek, the gentle movement of his mouth against his, the smell of him. 

Jon pulled away a moment later, a hair's breadth away. It took all of Martin’s self-control to remember to keep his eyes closed. His lips tingled with the memory of Jon’s touch, and all he could think was, oh. _Oh._

“Sorry,” Jon murmured, his nose brushing Martin’s, sounding as breathless as Martin felt, “I shouldn’t have—I should have asked—”

In answer, Martin’s hands found the sides of Jon’s face again, his thumbs brushing his cheeks, and he leaned in, tilting his head and pressing his lips to Jon’s again. Jon breathed out slowly, leaning closer, his hands cradling the back of Martin’s head and carding through the curls, kissing back with a barely restrained eagerness that had Martin fighting a smile. 

For the moment, they were the only two things that existed. There was nothing but the gentle brush of Jon’s fingers against his scalp and the warmth of him, pressed close, as Martin’s heart soared. 

All thoughts of that flickering thread left him, for the moment. He didn’t know what it meant, but he clung to the meaning he could see here, in the tender brush of Jon’s fingers and the gentle press of his lips against his. 

He was sure of so little, but he was sure of this, the warmth swelling in his heart as it felt three sizes too large for his chest, the love of Jonathan Sims so great it took his breath away.

He thought he’d be content if he never had to breathe again, if he could live in that moment for the rest of his days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They did it!!!! These pining idiots did it!!!!!! 
> 
> I was going to end this chapter on a way more ominous cliffhanger, but it was already about the length it should be for a chapter, and I thought what the hell, lets end with this nice fluff. Thoughts? Theories? Shouts of joy from the rooftops?
> 
> Happy holidays everyone, thank you for reading ❤️


	23. The Flickering Thread

Martin had held Jon’s hand enough now that he could recall the feeling with utter clarity. The way Jon’s fingers would tap or brush the back of his hand absently, the lines of his tendons and the divots of his scars, the warmth that bled from his palms. Martin was intimately familiar with the feeling of those touches, as he was the feeling of Jon’s hand lighting on his shoulder, or even, fleetingly, the gentle brush of fingertips across his cheek. 

This feeling, now, was utterly new and captivated every inch of his attention. The brush of Jon’s nose against his cheek, the trails his fingers made through Martin’s hair sending shivers down his spine. The way he would lean in, chin tilting up, to press his lips against Martin’s, and then lean back—ever so slightly, never breaking contact—to repeat the process again, like the steady, rhythmic movement of waves against the shore.

Martin took care to savor every movement, every huff of breath, every touch. 

Their movements were slower now, unhurried. Jon’s breath ghosted over his cheek, like a sigh, as he pulled back the slightest distance, barely a hair's breadth away. His hands remained, warm weights at the back of Martin’s head, his fingers brushing at the hair trailing up from the nape of his neck. Martin shivered at the gentle, barely-there motion of his fingertips. 

Jon made that sound like a sigh again, his nose brushing Martin’s. Martin could feel his eyes on him, that familiar weight of being watched over that he had since grown used to. It was strange, that the urge to look for himself had all but vanished. Jon was close enough—a hair’s breadth away, a touch away if he wanted to reach out—that that urge wasn’t nearly as strong as it had once been. 

Jon’s hands shifted, one of them moving to brush gentle fingers across Martin’s cheek. Jon breathed in, a soft intake of breath, like he was about to speak. “Martin...I— _Christ!_ ”

The exclamation and the almost immediate loss of Jon’s touch, along with the sound of a chair clattering to the floor, was surprising enough to have Martin opening his eyes, blinking in confusion and alarm. “Jon, what—?” He looked at Jon, and immediately winced and closed his eyes. “Ow,” he said, pointedly.

“Shit—hold on.” There was a brief sound of fabric rustling that Martin took to be Jon pulling his hood back over his head. “Sorry,” Jon said, his voice still a little too uneven for Martin’s heartbeat to slow. “It’s safe to look now.” 

Cautiously, Martin peaked open one eye, then the other. He looked at Jon, who must have leapt away from him so suddenly that he knocked over the chair, in utter bafflement. “What happened?” he asked, his eyes scanning over Jon’s tense posture and wide eyes. Had he done something wrong?

Jon coughed, looking to the side, then to the ground, and pointed at Martin. Or, no. Not at him, at his leg. Martin glanced down, following Jon’s direction.

There was a large—perhaps abnormally large—fuzzy spider perched on his thigh. Its large eyes looked back at him, owlish and unblinking.

Martin really couldn’t help but think it looked rather cute. 

It was clear that Jon, however, did not, with the way he looked two seconds from pressing himself against the wall to get further away from the thing. Despite himself, some of that doubt he was plagued with crept back in. Tim’s scathing distrust was still fresh from the night before, and even though Jon had demonstrated again and again that he wasn’t about to shy away from Martin now...

It had always been hard for him, to hope for the better and not anticipate the worst. 

“Sorry,” Martin murmured, glancing up at Jon with a tight smile, before looking down at the spider. “I don’t know why it’s here.”

“No, it’s—“ Jon’s reply was quick, an almost immediate reassurance, but his voice cut out when the spider moved slightly, it’s legs shifting so smoothly Martin barely felt the movement through his clothes. When Jon spoke again, he sounded strained but determined. “It’s fine,” he said, eyeing the spider, but taking a step closer to the bed. 

Martin’s breath caught at the surge of affection that ran through him, as Jon took another slow step to the bed on Martin’s left, the opposite side of the spider. Martin reached out with his left hand, beckoning silently, and Jon took it, gingerly taking a place on the bed by Martin’s side, his eyes never leaving the spider. 

The spider, on the other hand, seemed perfectly comfortable, shifting to stare at Jon with unblinking eyes.

“I think it likes you,” Martin murmured, gently brushing a fingertip down the spider’s leg, grinning when the spider bumped against his finger. 

Jon made a noise that sounded like an attempt at a polite affirmation, but sounded a bit pained.

Martin tilted his head, bumping his shoulder against Jon’s. “Not a fan of spiders, I take it?” he asked, taking pity.

Jon took an audible breath, looking from Martin to the spider, and blew it out, long and slow. “No, not really,” he admitted weakly.

“Don’t worry,” Martin murmured, turning his head and leaning closer to Jon, close enough that he caught Jon’s intake of breath. And, because Jon was sitting beside him, hand clasped in his, despite everything—that Jon still _trusted_ him, despite everything—he felt playful enough to add, “I’ll protect you from the big, bad spider.”

Jon made an indignant sputtering noise. “That’s not—shut up, Martin,” he grumbled.

Martin’s grin widened, but before he could say anything else, the spider moved. Jon’s grip tightened on Martin’s hand, and Martin decided—chancing a glance at Jon’s wide eyes tracking the spider as it made its way quickly down Martin’s pant leg—that he wouldn’t tease Jon about it any more. There was something about the way Jon’s breath clearly caught until the spider was moving away from them that gave him pause. 

And, almost as soon as Martin wondered over it, almost as soon as he brushed a thumb against the back of Jon’s hand, he saw it wreathed in gold. Jon’s trembling hand, smaller, unscarred and unmarked, reaching out to the back of a taller boy, opening a door. And the enormous, furred legs of the creature inside. 

The scene played before him as if he was Jon himself, watching.

Martin pulled his hand away from Jon’s and the image receded like smoke. He blinked back into reality, breathing hard. He focused on Jon’s face. Jon’s eyes were narrowed slightly in concern, and Martin was just able to register Jon’s breathless, “what is it?”

“I—I’m sorry,” Martin told him, the words tripping on his tongue with his haste to get them out. “I-I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have—I never would have said...”

“Martin,” Jon said, shaking his head slightly, “what are you talking about?”

Martin made to answer, but hesitated just for a moment, thoughts of broken privacy and overstepping whirling around in his head. “Why you’re afraid of spiders,” he managed, his voice trembling.

Jon blinked at him for a moment, seeming to process the statement. “Oh,” he said, and there was something like...awe in his voice. “You saw all that?”

“I didn’t mean to—” Martin rushed to assure, but Jon shook his head again, squeezing Martin’s hand. 

“It’s okay, I’m not angry, I...” Jon huffed a breath shaking his head again. “I suppose it’s just...it’s astounding the Web can produce both the past and the future with such clarity.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call the future _clear,_ ” Martin pointed out, remembering his half-success with the book and how difficult it had been to trace all those strings out. “It’s more like...desperately trying to cling onto a bar of soap in the bath.”

Jon barked a surprised laugh at that, and an answering grin found its way on Martin’s face, that pure, unbridled affection filling his chest again and worry flooding away. 

“Well, then I’m glad _something_ is difficult for the Web,” Jon said, a smile in his voice as he glanced at Martin sideways. “No offence.”

Martin rolled his eyes, so desperately fond. “You sound like Melanie.”

“Oh, _Melanie,_ ” Jon suddenly groaned, pressing a hand against his head. Before Martin could get worried, Jon continued, “she left not 20 minutes before you woke up—Christ, she’s going to kill me when she realizes I didn’t get her immediately.”

“Again,” Martin told him, letting his unabashed fondness seep into his voice, “I’ll protect you from the big, bad Melanie.”

“Would you?” Jon asked, and there was just enough of a serious tone to his voice to have Martin laughing.

When he focused on Jon’s face again, there was something decidedly...soft in the set of his shoulders, in the look in his eyes. It was a bit like looking at the sun, almost overwhelming in the way it was directed at him, but so blindly entrancing he didn’t want to look away. Martin’s grin softened into something smaller, as he looked back at him. Martin found himself wanting to lean in and close the distance between them, press another kiss to Jon’s mouth, but he didn’t particularly trust his aim when he couldn’t see. 

Though, he entertained the thought of exploring Jon’s face with soft, lingering kisses rather than fingertips. 

Before he could garner the nerve to even broach the idea, Jon’s eyes dropped to their hands. His grip shifted slightly, entwining their fingers, his thumb brushing over the back of Martin’s hand like a caress. Such a simple motion shouldn’t have been able to steal the breath from Martin’s lungs. And yet.

“The others will want to know you’re alright,” Jon said softly, looking up at him. 

Martin didn’t quite trust his voice yet, so he nodded. However, instead of getting to his feet like Martin expected, Jon remained sitting, looking at him. Before Martin could question him, Jon was leaning closer as Martin’s breath caught, his head tilting and pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek.

Jon lingered there for a moment before slowly drawing away, his eyes soft. There was a moment in which Martin had to remind himself to breathe, heat flooding his cheeks, his mouth working soundlessly.

“Come on, then,” Jon said, standing up, something of a smug smile in his voice that told Martin he had definitely noticed the pink on his cheeks.

Martin grumbled something incoherent about Jon being a tease, but took the proffered hand easily, standing up beside him. 

When they turned to the doorway, however, the spider was still there. It crawled toward the door, and then back, just looking at them. 

“Oh,” Martin said, “I think...I think it might want me to follow.”

“Ah,” Jon said, after a long pause.

Martin squeezed his hand, looking at him. “You can stay here if you like, Jon—“

“What?” Jon interrupted, narrowing his eyes. “Absolutely not. I’m going with you.”

“Oh,” Martin said again, a little of that warmth behind his face again. Jon said it like it was a given, like it was absurd of Martin to have come to any other conclusion. Still, Martin said, “are you sure?”

“I am,” Jon answered. “If the Web wants to lead you somewhere, then I am going to be there as well.”

Martin made no attempt to contain the soft smile that spread over his face at that. “Alright.”

And so, they followed the spider, which scuttled determinedly across the floor, only stopping and turning to see, Martin supposed, if they were still following. Jon only seemed a bit disconcerted by it, his grip on Martin’s hand tightening every time the spider looked back at them, but his steps never faltering. God, Martin loved him.

The spider stopped beside the great doors of the Archive, to the right of them, to make its way up the wall. Martin and Jon watched it curiously, and Martin’s attention was intent on the spider’s movements—at least until a shout broke the air.

“ _Martin?!”_ came Melanie’s voice, from the floor below, and Jon whirled around, peering over the bannister and groaning. “Jon _what_ the _fuck—“_

Martin had a few seconds to laugh at the long-suffering set of Jon’s shoulder’s and the race of footsteps up the staircase before Melanie—a blur really—launched into a hug that nearly sent him sprawling. Martin wrapped his arms around her, his chin resting on her shoulder, blinking away the sudden heat behind his eyes. He watched as Basira appeared up the staircase, taking a far more relaxed pace, but still looking relieved to see him. 

He still wasn’t sure when he’d be fully used to it, this feeling of being cared for. 

“Hi,” he murmured into Melanie’s shoulder.

Melanie’s grip tightened for a moment before she was pulling back, jabbing an index finger an inch from his face. “Do _not,_ ” she said pointedly, glaring, “do that again. Alright?”

“Sure,” Martin agreed, smiling. 

Melanie squinted at him, taking his face in his hands, looking from his right eye to his left. “What the fuck,” she breathed.

“That the Web, then?” Basira asked, her voice calm, though there was a bit of tension in how she held herself, not quite relaxed as she leaned against the banister. 

Martin eyed the string he could see between them, not quite as bright as it was between him and Melanie, but still there. “Yes,” Martin answered honestly.

Basira nodded slowly, her eyes assessing—cautious, certainly, but not hostile. “Do you know what it wants?”

“I’m working on it,” he told her, and made to say more, but Jon was suddenly reaching for his hand again, and his voice, when he spoke, was tense with...something.

“Martin,” Jon said, “look.”

Martin turned, looking in the direction Jon was, and his breath caught. On the wall, the spider had woven a web of light, thin gold. It was anything but complex, and yet...Martin didn’t think he’d ever seen a spider web consist so perfectly of four right angles. It looked like the spider had traced out the edges of something in gold, something rectangular, that once adorned the wall beside the Archive.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Melanie breathed again, from beside him. 

“Jon,” Martin murmured, taking a step closer to the wall, entranced, “what used to hang there?”

It took Jon a moment to answer. “A portrait,” he said, finally. “A portrait of Jonah Magnus.”

Martin stared at the gold on the wall, framing what must have been, once, the portraits edges. It hummed for him. He took a step closer to it, reaching out a hand.

“Martin...?”

“Hold on, are we sure that’s—?”

Martin touched the web, and all sound fell away. The feeling of Jon’s hand in his fell away. 

When he opened his eyes, gold blurring at the edges of his vision, he looked up at an intact portrait of Jonah Magnus. Cold stung his lungs as he breathed out, taking the picture in. Fog roiled around his ankles.

He looked at the portrait, studying it. He took in the pale skin, the high cheekbones, the brown hair, and the piercing, cold eyes that seemed to look back at him. The feeling of being watched prickled at him, like he was the one being studied, dissected, taken apart. It was the feeling of being _watched,_ clinical and anything but comforting, not watched over like it was with...

With...

Martin took a step back, away from the portrait, his breath catching in his throat. With...who? The fog prickled at his skin, the stinging cold licking up at him. 

Those blue eyes watched him, pinned him in place as the fear crept to his throat. There had been someone. He had had someone, someone smart. Capable. Someone he trusted, someone he—

What had his name been?

...What was his own name?

His breaths came faster, the panic of not knowing, of forgetting, and feeling of eyes pressing down on him all too much, too much—

The fog took the opportunity to crawl into his lungs, sending the cold racing through his veins, smoothing over his desperate attempts to remember. He turned, slowly, fog leaving his mouth on the exhale as he studied the space behind him, empty apart from the mist. 

He didn’t know why a distant part of him had expected someone to be there. He didn’t know why he was crying, cold tears slicing their way down his cheeks like glass. He couldn’t remember. 

He was alone. He had always been alone. Except...

Those eyes bore into him, cold and blue, familiar, and yet too cruel, too alien, to be anything familiar, at all.

 _Those aren’t the eyes I know,_ he thought, and it made him ache, carved out some part of him, when he realized, maybe those were the eyes he thought he knew. They’d just changed, and he had not changed with them. Outgrown. Remaindered. Unloved.

The sound of a recorder clicked in the distance. And then, a voice traveled through the fog, distant and familiar. 

_Hello, Barnabas._

_I received your letter._

He moved automatically toward the sound, but it drifted away as he tried to close the distance, growing dimmer. 

_...what is it like? To be so consumed, you feel whole..._

The voice faded, and he stopped. Something in his chest ached, burned, bled, but he didn’t know why.

He couldn’t remember.

He could feel the prickle of eyes on him, still. 

Whose had they been?

He couldn’t recall. But every time those eyes turned on him, watching, distant and uncaring, he ached with more than cold. He would have sobbed if his tears hadn’t frozen on his cheeks, would have screamed if the fog hadn’t stolen his breath. 

“ _...artin!_ ” a voice drifted through the fog, barely loud enough to hear.

Those eyes bore down on him, watching, reveling in what had been done to him—

Done to him. This wasn’t...this had been _done_ to him. He...he hadn’t always been alone. He had known what it was like to be connected to anything and everything else. This place, it wasn’t meant for him. He wasn’t supposed to be there—

“ _Martin! Martin, let go of the—Melanie,_ help _me—_ ”

He’d had someone. Someone important, someone he...someone he’d loved, and they, he...

They abandoned him, cast him away like he was nothing, and now they watched and drank their fill as he wasted away to nothing but fog and fury and smoke.

The anger burned brighter and hotter than anything else, so he clung to it, even as it flayed at him, even as it ate at him.

The fog parted before him, a curl of it cupping his cheek, and two eyes appeared through the haze, intent and bright and blue.

 _“Martin? Martin, look at me—look at me._ ”

The fog brushed his cheeks, like a caress, so cold it burned and—

No. No, the touch wasn’t cold. It burned because it was warm, and those blue eyes—they weren’t blue at all, and suddenly...

He was watched over. Not watched. 

_“Martin,_ ” Jon’s voice said, his eyes wide, his hands—real, not fog, not blistering cold—bracketing Martin’s face, “ _let go,_ let go of the string, Martin—”

In another place, Martin’s hand, in a death grip, slowly uncurled, the spider web slipping from his palm.

And Jon was there, his hands trembling against him, and Melanie was crouched at his right with her hand on Martin’s arm, and Basira, looking down, looking as helpless as Martin had ever seen her. And he...he was curled up against the wall, on the floor beside the Archive, shivering with the lingering cold that bled from him.

He took a shuddering breath, stretching out his hand, stiff with cold and being clenched tight for so long. 

“Martin?” Jon asked, eyes wide, looking between his like he could read an answer on Martin’s face, imprinted on his skin. “Are you—can you see us?”

Martin took another breath, watching the exhale for fog, and shuddered again when he could see a bare curl of it leaving his mouth. “ _Jon,_ ” he gasped out, and it was all he could get out, because then his voice left him and Jon was pulling him close, arms wrapping around him bleeding warmth. 

He buried his face into the curve of Jon’s neck, letting the warmth of the real world seep into him, while he thought of that world of ice and fog. “Something awful happened here,” Martin murmured into Jon’s shoulder, certain of the fact down to his bones where the chill still lingered.

The only indication Jon heard him was the tightening of his arms around him.

* * *

Martin adjusted the blanket around him, holding the mug of tea closer to him, as he leaned his head against the window of the Archive. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, Jon shooting concerned glances at him while he was speaking in fervent whispers with Basira, but it was Melanie, sitting across from him with her legs crossed, that broke the silence. 

“I told you not to do anything like that,” she said, and though her voice sounded harsh, there was an undercurrent of concern there. “You really don’t listen, do you?”

“Sorry,” Martin murmured, eliciting a roll of her eyes and a jab from her foot. He hid his smile in a sip of tea.

“No you’re not,” she grumbled, glancing out the window and then looking back at him. “You really aren’t, are you?”

Martin sighed, studying the slight fogginess of the cold glass just outside, squinting with the low hanging sun. The chill had receded from his bones, every memory that was stripped away from the Lonely was back. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel as though a part of him had been there for years, centuries, instead of minutes and seconds. “In a way, I’m not, I suppose,” he said eventually.

“Why?” Melanie asked, after a moment of perplexed staring. 

Martin sighed, looking out onto the Archive, at the thousands of golden strings that criss crossed their way through it, connecting statements. At the golden figure he could see on the other side of the room, looking back at him. “Because something happened here,” Martin found himself saying, watching the figure, “something long forgotten, and it’s important to what’s going on now. And...because there’s nothing more painful than being forgotten, than...than being unknown,” he said, glancing back at her.

Melanie’s eyes dropped, then darted to the window, the line of her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “You’re right about that,” she said, softly.

They sat in silence for a few moments, broken only by the sound of Jon and Basira’s distant conversation, before Martin gathered the courage to ask, “is...is Tim around? Is he okay?”

Melanie sighed, shifting to sit up straighter. “Tim is...certainly not the best at coping. And that’s coming from me. But ever since you...” she looked up at him, tilted her head as if to say, _you know_ , “he’s been...I think he feels guilty. For pushing you to try to find answers you didn’t have. He’s not shown his face much, after calling us to the Archive last night, when you were...” she trailed off, looking out at the window. “For a second, I thought you were dead, you know?”

Martin blinked, his grip tightening on his mug. “Melanie—”

“No,” Melanie said, turning to glare at him. “No, for once in your life, listen. For a second, I saw you on the ground, unmoving, next to Tim, who was kneeling over you, a-and I thought...I thought I’d lost—” She sighed, a punched out exhale, glancing away. “And, Jesus, you should have heard the sound Jon made, when he saw you.” 

Martin set his mug down on the windowsill, regret carving a knife through his chest. “I...I didn’t...I’m sorry, Melanie, I—”

“God, I _know,”_ she said, looking even more annoyed at him. “I know you are, Martin, it’s just. Maybe next time,” she said, “think about whether you’re actually making a choice, or if you’re just doing something because it seems like the only option left. Because there is a difference.”

Martin swallowed roughly, nodding. “Okay. You—you’re right, I’ll...I’ll try.”

“Good,” she sniped, looking back at the window and crossing her arms. “I am glad you didn’t die,” she admitted, after a moment.

Martin tried to tamp down the smile, but Melanie glanced at him just as it got a little too wide. Her eyes narrowed at him. “Stop looking at me like that, spider-boy.”

Now that the jig was up, he let the smile grow. “Like what? Like I care about you too?”

“Stop—”

“Like I like you?”

“Shut _up_.”

“It’s okay to admit you have _feelings—“_

Melanie chucked her blanket at him, effectively catching him over the head with it. He laughed, tugging it off of him, and caught Melanie’s fleeting smile, forcefully hidden away under a scowl. “You know, I was going to get you more tea, but, you know what? I’m not now,” she said, crossing her arms. 

“Mm, that’s okay,” Martin shot back, “you make shit tea.”

Melanie’s jaw dropped, her eyes widening. “You _take_ that _back—_ ”

“No, I don’t think I—” Melanie stole his mug away from him, threatening to dump it over his head, and Martin frantically back-pedaled, “you know, now that I think about it, it’s very good.”

“Yeah!”

“Well-steeped—”

“Yes.”

“Flavorful.”

“Correct, Blackwood,” she said, slowly lowering the mug with narrowed eyes, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “I make good tea.”

“Haven’t I always said that?” Martin asked innocently, grinning when Melanie let out a snort.

“Which is why,” she said, “I’m going to get you more. And you’re going to drink it, isn’t that right?”

Martin looked up at her when she stood up, biting down on his grin. “Sure.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but turned, passing by Jon and Basira. “Do you two think I make good tea?”

“It’s fine,” Jon said, as Basira said, flatly, “no.”

Melanie glared at them too, whirling it on Martin when he huffed a laugh. “Everyone’s a critic,” she grumbled, brushing past the two to the kitchens. 

Martin watched her go in silent amusement, before turning his attention to the window again, letting his head rest against it. After a few minutes, the spot Melanie vacated was taken up. Martin took the proffered hand, tilting his head to look at Jon when he asked, softly, “alright?” as if he hadn’t asked the question dozens of times in the past hour. 

“Yeah,” Martin answered, so fond and warm he felt like he was floating on a cloud. “Yeah, I’m okay, Jon.”

Jon nodded, looking at their hands, his thumb brushing the back of Martin’s hand repetitively. “Good,” he murmured, barely loud enough to hear.

“What were you and Basira talking about?” Martin asked.

Jon seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking up at him, then down. “Basira,” he said, “seems to think that your...following the Web’s hints is the best lead we have.”

Martin furrowed his brow, studying the tense line of Jon’s shoulders. “And you...don’t?”

Jon’s index finger tapped anxiously against his hand, his shoulders drawing up higher. “I—I don’t like that the Web seems... _determined_ to push you to the Lonely,” Jon said, after a moment, looking up at him. 

“I don’t think it wants _me_ Lonely, Jon,” Martin couldn’t help but say, but Jon was shaking his head.

“You didn’t—you didn’t see yourself. It—it was like you were...you were physically there but _you_ w-were far away, a-and you were getting colder, and the fog started to wrap around you, a-and—”

Martin clutched Jon’s hand tighter, and closed the distance between them, moving to sit in the small space between him and the window, curving into his side. Jon blew out a breath, going quiet, wrapping his arms around him. Martin felt him press a kiss to his hair, and he closed his eyes, the fabric of Jon’s shirt soft against his cheek. The light from the flickering thread between them flashed from behind his eyelids, but he ignored it. 

“Jon?” Martin asked, waiting for the soft, affirmative noise Jon made before continuing, “all the other times someone has used the book, when...when they try to use the power it contains by fulfilling the rhyme, it...it’s always a trial, isn’t it?”

He tried to make the point as gently as he could, but Jon still went a little stiff, the circular motions he trailed over Martin’s back pausing, for a moment. “The requirements are never particularly pleasant,” Jon said, as if the words were dragged out of him.

“So...” Martin said softly, “maybe there’s something about the Lonely that’s important for doing what the book wants.”

Martin was sure he didn’t imagine the way Jon’s grip on him tightened, ever so slightly. “You don’t know that,” he rasped.

Martin sighed, drawing back slightly to look at him. “Jon...”

“I will not let the Lonely have you,” Jon said, his eyes so bright and intent on him that it took his breath away, for a moment. 

“Even if the world’s at stake?” Martin couldn’t help but point out, his voice soft. It was always good to bear bad news that way after all.

Jon took an audible breath, looking down at their hands. Before he could say anything, Martin saw a flicker at the corner of his vision. A string, trailing from him out the window. There one moment, and then it was gone. But it was a string. He was sure of it. 

None of the rest of them flickered, apart from the one trailing from him to Jon. Except this one, which trailed from him out into the world. 

There were so many strings that trailed from him at any given time, he supposed this might have been one of them, but he hadn’t noticed its uniqueness in connecting himself to something outside of the estate. Not until now.

He whirled to look out the window more intently, his thoughts quiet except for the hope of _Sasha, Sasha, Sasha._

That would make sense, wouldn’t it? She was the only one he could imagine a connection to, apart from everyone else in the estate.

“Martin?” Jon prompted, audibly confused. “What is it?”

“I saw something,” Martin explained, breathless, “a-a flicker of a thread, I think...maybe it’s Sasha?”

Jon straightened up, looking at him and then glancing out. “Really?”

“Yeah, I—I know I saw something, they don’t...” he swallowed, glancing at Jon out the corner of his eye, and looking back out, “they don’t usually come in and out like this.”

Martin watched, and waited, for minutes, getting more impatient as they ticked by. He knew he’d seen something. He _knew._ But the longer he waited, Jon tense and expectant at his side, the more he began to convince himself that perhaps it was just that thread between him and Jon reflected in the window, a trick of the light—

Until it flashed again. Martin didn’t think. He reached for it as soon as he saw it, making contact, and he saw—

_An empty chair at the dining table._

_An endless list of doctor’s visits._

_A boney hand clutching his wrist, the sickly sweet smell of the room._

_Unanswered phone calls—_

Martin didn’t want to see any of it, the past prickling under his skin like fresh wounds, so, automatically, he drifted forward along the string.

And he saw, with perfect clarity, a tombstone in bright sunlight with his mother’s name, and the year etched in stone, just before the string flickered away again under his hand.

He dropped his trembling hand, looking sightlessly out the window, as dread and realization carved its way through his stomach. All he could think of was the impression left to him, left burning under his fingers that said _soon, soon, soon._

“Martin?” Jon asked, his hand lighting gently on his shoulder. He must have seen something on Martin’s face, because he asked, his voice so tight it nearly shook, “what is it? Was it—was it Sasha—?”

“It was my mum,” Martin whispered, his voice trembling, and just speaking it was a thousand times worse. “She—she’s going to...to...”

Jon seemed to understand, his grip tightening on Martin’s shoulder as his eyes blinked wide, and Martin was glad of it because he didn’t think he could _say it_ , give voice to the fact that his mum was going to—

To—

Martin clutched the hand that brushed against his cheek, trying to anchor himself as his breaths came too short. 

“Martin, I...I’m so—”

“What—what am I—?” Martin swallowed around the tightness of his throat, trying to speak around the panic. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked helplessly. “She’s—I can’t—”

He didn’t really expect Jon to have an answer, but he froze when Jon said, after a moment, quietly definitive, “you should go see her.”

Martin stared at him, his brow furrowing. “I...what?”

“I—you said, you saw...” Jon trailed off, looking down, seemingly trying to find a way to say it. “Is it...going to happen soon?”

Martin didn’t really trust his voice, so he nodded, his head feeling weighty, too heavy for his shoulders.

Jon took an audible breath, meeting his eyes. “Then you should go. If...if you leave now, you should be able to reach town with time to spare before sundown.”

Martin stared at him, his eyes wide, and he couldn’t help but look at the string between them, and think about what it might mean.

None of them flickered like that, except...

“What—” Martin gasped out, looking up at him, “what about you, I-I can’t—”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon assured him softly. He leaned forward, as if to say something else, paused, and then, said, “we waited for you before. I...I can survive a day or two, Martin.”

Martin took a shaking breath, feeling like he was being torn in two. 

“I would...I would go with you,” Jon was saying, “if I could. But...I-I’m sure Melanie would be glad to go instead. Just in case, so you have someone with you.”

There was movement behind Jon, and when Martin looked, he saw that golden figure, slowly shaking its head. 

“Besides,” Jon added, something in his voice drew Martin’s gaze again, some clear concern that cut to the core of him. “Maybe...maybe it would be good for you to get away from the estate. At least...for a little bit. Give you some time away from the Web’s influence here to...to think.”

Martin swallowed roughly, his eyes dropping as he thought about it. He didn’t want to feel like he owed his mother anything, not after all she’d done to him, but there was that small part of him that couldn’t help but tremble and think of her when he was much, much younger and she was much, much happier. _She’s your_ mum. 

And perhaps it was closure, and perhaps a small, spiteful part of him just wanted it to be over, but he just—he always thought he’d be there, when she—

He took a trembling breath, squeezing Jon’s hand, not quite sure when he’d reached for it but so grateful for the contact. He didn’t quite know how to convey the conflict in his head, but again, Jon seemed to understand some part of it when Martin admitted, “I hate visiting that hospital.”

Jon squeezed his hand back, his thumb brushing against the back of Martin’s hand, and Martin didn’t really expect a response, but after a beat, Jon murmured, tentatively, “hold on, let me...I’ll be right back, okay?”

Martin looked up at him and nodded, a little lost. Watching as Jon stood and searched for something in the shelves, oblivious to the golden figure that also watched him. 

After about a minute of searching, Jon returned, and Martin immediately recognized a tape recorder in his hands. “Here,” Jon murmured, pressing it into Martin’s hands. “It’s...it’s a blank tape. You remember,” Jon said. “If...if you need to—to talk, or if it gets too much, you can turn it on. I won’t be able to talk back,” he said, regret in his voice, “but I’ll be able to hear you.”

Martin blinked down at the tape recorder, his vision getting blurrier. He held it close to his chest, and looked up at Jon, sniffing. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Jon nodded, lifting his hand to brush Martin’s cheek. “Alright?”

Martin took a breath, his eyes drifting, just for a moment, to that golden figure in the Archive beyond, looking at them. 

_Just a day or two._

Shakily, Martin nodded.

* * *

It didn’t take long to leave after that. He had the tape recorder hidden away in a jacket pocket, and Melanie at his side. The sun shone just below the tops of the trees. 

Jon held his hand up to the gate. Up until he could. Martin held him close, in a bruising hug. It was only the threat of the sun sinking that had him pulling away. 

“I’ll try to keep an eye on you,” Jon said, wrapping an arm around himself, “at least until you reach the hospital.”

“Jon, you shouldn’t—”

“I won’t look long,” Jon promised. “I just...it’d make me feel better. Since I can’t go with you.”

Martin swallowed around the lump in his throat, just looking at him for a moment. “Not long,” he was sure to assert.

“If you two are done,” Melanie said, though the bite in her words was decidedly muted, “we need to get going soon. If we want a safe window.”

Martin nodded, taking a breath and squeezing Jon’s hand once more, before letting it go. _Just a day or two._

“Could you...could you tell Tim I said goodbye?” he asked Jon. Martin had said his goodbyes to Basira, but Tim had been elusive. Martin had looked all over the estate for him, but had paused at the greenhouse, the only place he hadn’t looked yet. _I always liked spending time in here,_ Tim had said of the place, once. _It’s quiet._

Martin couldn’t bring himself to go in. 

“A-and tell him...tell him I’m sorry,” he continued.

“I don’t think you’re the one who needs to apologize, Martin—” Jon said stiltedly, after a tense moment, but Martin sighed, interjecting, “please, Jon. Just...please tell him.”

Jon let out a breath, nodding. “Okay. Fine.”

Martin took a step back, toward the forest. “I’ll be back soon,” he told Jon, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

Jon nodded, wrapping his arm tighter around himself. Martin couldn’t help but think the motion made Jon look very small.

 _I love you,_ he didn’t say, but it was in every thought, every thread of his being, as Melanie placed a hand on his back and they turned into the woods.

They didn’t talk much during the trek. Melanie seemed to understand that he wanted to get there as soon as possible (as much as another part of him wanted never to arrive), and so they took large strides and a brutally direct route.

They made it to town with the sun still shining, and it was a short enough walk from there to the hospital. 

It was like walking through time, seeing so many people in town, and then in the hospital reception. It helped that Melanie stuck close, and looked unapproachable enough that no one strayed too close or looked too hard at them. Martin felt like a very different person from when he’d last been in town, so many months ago. 

Melanie tapped his arm when he stood, motionless, staring at the reception desk, overwhelmed by the flood of nurses and doctors and the smell of antiseptic. “Martin? I...do you want me to wait here for you?”

Martin looked at her uncomprehending for a moment, before nodding, jerkily. That would make it easier, wouldn’t it? If he didn’t have to introduce anyone new, if no one had to see him when he was with her?

“Okay,” she said, uncharacteristically soft, her hand brushing at his shoulder before dropping away.

She turned to sit at one of the chairs by the already barred, blocked off window, and it spurred Martin into movement. He knew the motions, knew what he was supposed to do. He’d done this hundreds of times before. This was just...one more of those.

He smiled at the man at the front desk, who didn’t smile back, merely looked at him with glinting eyes. “Um,” Martin began, his voice a little too soft, “I’m a, um, visitor for Grace Blackwood?”

The man stared at him for what felt, almost, a beat too long, then looked down at a form, not bothering to look up again. “Room 248,” he said in a rough accent.

“I—what? No, her—her room is 121—”

“She’s been moved,” the man said, shortly, “critical care.”

Martin swallowed, his stomach immediately dropping. “Oh. Oh, course, I—sorry.” He drew away from the desk when the man didn’t acknowledge him again. 

When he drifted past Melanie to the elevators, he managed to shoot her a small smile. He wasn’t quite sure who it was for.

The sight in room 248 was much like what he’d expected. His mother—older looking than he remembered her, frail, the fluorescents carving harsh shadows on the hollows of her face—was still on the bed, hooked up to beeping machines. The heart monitor beeped a very slow, but steady rhythm, so constant it almost seemed fake.

He shakily took the empty seat by the side of her bed, just looking at her. Her skin seemed thin, waxy, as if movement would tear her open. But she didn’t move, apart from the mechanical rise and fall of her chest, and didn’t wake.

Martin felt sick with how glad he was of it.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. But the minutes ticked on, and the sun slowly set outside, evident from the slow loss of light behind the boarding on the windows.

After a while, the only light was the harsh lights of the fluorescents, burning above them, making his mother’s face look skeletal. 

Until, with no warning, the lights went out. 

The emergency generator the hospital had kicked in almost immediately, bathing the room in red lights and an alarm blaring somewhere in the distance, but Martin had rocketed up out of his chair as soon as the room was plunged into darkness. His heart was beating fast, sweat prickling at his fingertips, and he quickly realized why. The constant sound of the heart monitor had stopped. 

Martin breathed out shakily, turning to the door, his only thought that he should get a nurse, he should—

A scream sounded in the hall. And then another. And another.

Martin froze in his tracks, staring at the door bathed in red light, his heart pounding in his ears. 

There was a flash of gold in front of him, and when he looked down, he saw that dim string, the one connecting him to his mother, and saw that it trailed out beyond the door. It flickered out of existence fast, as it always did. But it was enough. He realized, now, with a rush of clarity, he had never, in the time he’d been in this room, seen any string between him and the thing on the bed.

 _She’s been moved. Critical care,_ the man at the front had said, with his strange accent and his glinting eyes.

There was a slow movement in his periphery. Martin felt frozen in place, fear rooting him to the ground, but he forced himself to turn his head, to look.

The thing with his mother’s face was sitting up in the bed, looking at him, with a grin that warped the waxy skin around its mouth, its eyes glinting in the red light. “We’ve been waiting for you,” it said, unnaturally gleeful, its mouth not moving quite right to form the words.

That was enough. Martin whirled around, terror high in his throat, making to open the door, but it did so before he could reach it, and the man from the front desk was entering the room, with his hulking mass and nondescript face.

Martin lurched back, his heart pounding, desperately looking to the boarded up window. If he could pry the boards off—it was only the second floor—

The man from the desk was reaching out for him, and suddenly it was the only choice. He turned, but the thing wearing his mother’s face was before him, hospital gown as ill-fitting as the face that slowly seeped off, revealing the painted smile underneath. 

And then, an arm was wrapped around his throat, dragging him back, choking him. The violent motion jostled the recorder in his pocket, and when it hit the ground, the whir of the recording clicked on.

Martin kicked and clawed at the arm around his throat, desperate for air, but as his nails tore through thin, not-right skin, it was only sand that trickled over his hands, and the pressure did not let up.

“Oh!” the thing with the painted face exclaimed, as Martin’s pleas and terror stricken cries came out awful, garbled gasps for air, “hellooo? Is this what I think it is?” the thing asked, looking up at him with delight, painted eyes unblinking. “Can you hear us, Jon? I can still call you Jon, can’t I? Oh, I _have_ missed you, all this time.

“It’s the weaver’s time, now, you see,” it said, looking up at him, as Martin’s vision began to waver and his desperate scrabbling against the ground began to slow. “But don’t worry. We’ll come for you too, soon,” it said, before straightening up in a mechanical movement and crushing the recorder underfoot. 

“Ah,” the thing said, tilting its head at him and stepping closer to him, as black threatened at the corners of his vision. He thought, distantly, he heard Melanie’s voice shouting his name, among all the screaming from the hallway, but it very likely could have been a fevered imagining from the lack of oxygen. “I do so love catching up with old friends,” the thing said cheerily. “But do you know what I like more?” it asked, leaning closer. 

Martin did not. In fact, Martin couldn’t quite focus on anything anymore, as his lungs burned and his vision bled black and his mind fuzzed over and his hands dropped away from the man’s arm. 

The last thing he heard was the creature’s voice, so very excitedly saying, “meeting _new_ ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so, I'm not going to do a Jon POV for this fic, because that would take so freaking long, but I feel like, as the author, I would like to share that when Martin says "even if the world's at stake?" though Jon doesn't get to respond, he thinks "how can you ask me about the world when it's sitting right in front of me." Like maybe he wouldn't be sappy enough to say it but he DEFINITELY thought it. Author word of law here. 
> 
> Also, you know I had to include the recorder, we HAD to keep Jon in the loop with what went on in the hospital, I mean, he'd want to know right? :))
> 
> GUESS WHAT, GUYS?? We have some gorgeous fanart for the last chapter! Ash, or ashes-in-a-jar on tumblr, has created a lovely visual for the jonmartin kiss we saw last chapter. Here's the link: https://ashes-in-a-jar.tumblr.com/post/638719103645925376/so-theres-this-insanely-good-fic-i-highly  
> If you're aching for some fluff after this cliffhanger, definitely check it out ;)


	24. The Call of the Encore

Martin didn’t know how long he’d been there. Time blurred into itself, wherever he was. 

A theater, he thought. Must have been. 

Because he was sitting on a stage, the ropes around his wrists and ankles somehow not rough enough to rub his skin quite raw, even with how he struggled against them. A spotlight burned above him, ever present, the only real source of heat. He could just barely make out the hundreds of seats that sprawled before him in the dark. Could just barely see the pinprick eyes that stared at him, in nondescript, shadowy faces. 

The only real sense of time he had was when their whispers and taunts stopped. When they finally quieted, when those eyes in the crowd blinked out—it must have been daylight outside, then. There was no real way to know. The theater was pitch black aside from the spotlight above his head. If there were any windows or doors, they were boarded up, covered over. If there was any sunlight, he did not see it.

The creatures around him had grown bolder as time went on. Waxy hands with, perhaps, too many fingers, would reach out at him, tugging at clothing, his hair. Shoving and poking. But they never strayed far enough to wander into the light and let their faces show. 

And, while it was instinctual to cringe away whenever they reached out, making himself smaller, Martin couldn’t help but notice that they seemed _very_ careful not to leave any marks. 

At first, they were silent. But as they watched him, they took on eerily familiar silhouettes in the dark. When they started to speak, it was in whispers, at first. Snatches of sentences he could almost make out, in voices that he recognized. Tim and Melanie and Basira. Daisy. His mother. Jon. 

_Look at him._

_All alone._

_Just as he should be._

_The Web cut away._

_Stupid boy._

_Never amount to anything._

_Failure._

_Coward._

_Worthless._

The voices came from all around him, and he cringed away from them like blows. They continued, relentless, all the same. In a moment of desperation, he’d tried to compel the things to stop, but he couldn’t _see_ them, and so couldn’t direct the order. They continued unfailingly, like crows or vultures, circling and hissing and laughing. 

He could do nothing but wait until their voices died down, trying to collapse in on himself to get away from them. 

Martin couldn’t see the glowing strands of the Web in this place, and the part of him that still remembered what it was like to be human and normal _hated_ that he missed the threads, but he did. Oh, he did, like an ache, like a missing limb. There was nothing but darkness around him now. He was...adrift. Nothing real but those voices around him, even as he knew they weren’t either, not really. It wasn’t Tim and it wasn’t Melanie, or Basira, or Daisy. It couldn’t have been, but they just...they sounded _exactly_ like them, and as the hours wore on it became harder to distinguish between what he knew and what he heard.

 _“Should’ve killed you when I had the chance,”_ Basira’s voice said, utterly dispassionate, just behind him.

 _“I hate you,”_ Tim’s voice snarled at him, from his left. _“You deserve this.”_

“Shut up,” Martin breathed, his eyes screwed shut. He flinched away from another tug on his sweater, filthy with sweat and dirt and blood that he didn’t think was his. The ropes around his wrists and ankles didn’t let him get far. “Just...stop...”

 _“Stop?”_ Daisy’s voice asked, with a mocking laugh, _“it’s never going to stop.”_

Martin screwed his eyes shut tighter. “You’re not real—“

 _“This is real, Martin,”_ Jon’s voice said, from directly in front of him, awful and pitying and soft.

Martin opened his eyes to the darkness before him instinctively. Jon’s voice came through less than the others, but never seemed to move around. It was always directly before him. Martin strained to look past the light of the spotlight, just barely making out a silhouette against the darkness. Something person-shaped that stared at him, unmoving. 

Though, with a chill, he thought it seemed closer to him now than it had been before. 

Martin watched its form warily for as long as he could stand it. Eventually, he shut his eyes again, desperate for any barrier against the things that surrounded him, with their familiar voices and laughs that didn’t sound quite right.

It took ages for them to fade away. Martin hadn’t realized how tense he’d held himself until the last voice quieted. He took a quivering breath, sinking back against the chair, trembling so violently his teeth almost chattered with it. He sniffed, tilting his head to wipe away half-dried tears on his sweater, and tried not to give in to the despair that clawed away at him. 

They hadn’t said what they’d wanted with him. He hadn’t seen that thing that had worn a waxy parody of his mother’s face since he’d woken up here. None of them had said anything to him, except in his friends’ stolen voices. Maybe they didn’t want to do anything to him other than drive him mad that way. 

Maybe they just planned to keep him there until the rest of that fear seeped out of the Web’s book and the world ended.

Whatever it was that they wanted, he didn’t think it was likely he’d see Jon again.  
Or Melanie. Or Sasha. Or Basira. Or Tim, or Daisy—

He screwed his eyes shut, taking a trembling breath, forcefully cutting off his train of thought when he felt a sob rise up in his throat. Futilely, he jerked at the bindings that held him in place, but they didn’t budge. He didn’t even have the leverage to move across the ground, with his ankles tied to the chair legs. 

Still, he pulled at the binds intermittently, twisting and straining and trying to work his hands out from under them in the reprieve from voices in the shadows. Focusing on potential escape was far better than indulging those darker thoughts and the fear that had settled bone deep.

He worked, quietly focused, until he registered a repetitive, distant sound over his harsh breathing. Like...a sniffling sound. As if someone was breathing unevenly to try to keep from crying. 

Martin tensed, going still as he listened intently, eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of those creatures having returned. He didn’t see any forms in the dark. And...if he focused, he could have sworn that sniffling sound was coming to his left and slightly behind. 

He waited, to see if the thing making the noise would approach, or say anything else, but no other sound came. Was this some kind of trick? 

“Hello?” Martin asked, tentatively, after waiting a tense few minutes. 

The noise stopped immediately. Martin’s heart pounded in his ears as he waited for any response, fear tightening his throat. 

“Who are you?” a trembling voice finally asked from the dark, and Martin’s breath caught in his chest. 

Sasha. That was Sasha’s voice. He remembered the tone of it as if he’d just heard it yesterday. For a moment, unbridled hope swelled in his chest—she was here, she was _alive—_ but he forced himself not to get carried away in it. He’d thought the NotThem had sounded like her. That night when he’d come up on her door. And while he didn’t think it sounded as deep or rough as the NotThem’s parody now...that night he had convinced himself that had been what she’d sounded like regardless. 

Martin remained quiet, thinking over whether or not it would be smart to respond, when the voice that sounded like Sasha’s said, only trembling slightly, “look, if you’re another one of those mimics, you can just fuck right off. I’m not in the mood.”

Martin blinked at the darkness, brow furrowing, and blurted, “well, how do I know you’re not one?”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and then a long pause before anything else was said. 

“Martin?” Sasha’s voice asked, tentative.

Martin took a shaky breath, closing his eyes against the sudden heat that prickled behind them. “Is that really you?”

Sasha gave a very weak laugh. “I could ask you the same,” she said, voice thick.

Martin choked on a laugh that felt more like a sob, his vision blurring. “God, this is so stupid,” he murmured, closing his eyes when he heard Sasha’s answering laugh, stronger and so familiar it made his heart ache.

“Agreed,” she said. Then, after a pause, “ask me what your favorite tea is.”

Martin considered it, trying to control the frantic hope that told him _it’s her, it is, she’s real._ He didn’t know for sure yet. “To make or to drink?”

“You know, most people wouldn’t have to specify that, Martin,” she pointed out. 

“We aren’t most people, are we?” he shot back.

“Fair. To make, then.”

“I don’t even think I’ve told you that.”

“The fact that you haven’t told me is _exactly_ why it’s the perfect question,” she said.

Martin supposed that was true. But still, he asked, “but if I’ve never _told_ you—“

“Martin,” she sighed. “I’m not simple, I can make a pretty educated guess.”

“Fine,” he said, shifting in the chair as he thought about it. It didn’t take very long. “Okay. What’s my favorite tea to make?”

“Assam,” Sasha answered immediately. 

Martin closed his eyes and breathed out a sigh of relief. She was right. Still, he asked, “why?”

Sasha paused for a moment before answering. “Because of who you make it for.”

Martin swallowed around the lump in his throat, thinking of Jon. “That obvious was it?” he asked, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking. “How long were you waiting to call me out on that?”

There was a brief pause. “Thought I’d have more time for that,” she said shakily. “Before.”

Martin closed his eyes against the sting of tears, emotion welling up in his throat. 

“What about me?” he barely heard her ask. “What’s my favorite tea to make?”

He took a breath, trying to think past the awful guilt that clouded his mind. “White tea,” he answered after a moment, his voice strained. He didn’t think he was able to hide the way it shook. “White peach. It’s not your favorite to drink, but you’re always so impatient with the steeping. It’s the quickest and...helps when you get those—“ his voice cut out, and he finished, weakly, “caffeine headaches.”

Sasha was silent for a moment, then said, achingly soft and gently questioning, “Martin?”

The sob he’d been trying to stifle slipped out of him. 

“Martin,” Sasha said again, soft and concerned, and it was too much.

He couldn’t keep the tears from spilling over, his breath coming short. His chest ached with it. “I’m so sorry,” he told her, his voice thick.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Martin—“

“I do,” he whispered.

“Martin.“

“It’s my fault you’re here,” he said, the words like a noose around his throat. The guilt wrapped around him in the following silence, choking out more tears, more of that ache. “It’s my fault. I gave you the knife, it was my fault—“

“It wasn’t your fault, Martin,” Sasha interrupted, her voice firm. “I was drunk. I forgot about the stupid knife. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, and I don’t really think it _is_ anyone’s fault, actually. Just...an unfortunate series of events.”

Martin closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. Even if she didn’t blame him, he didn’t think he’d ever escape the guilt. But it didn’t do them any good now. “Are you okay?” he asked.

There was the briefest pause before she spoke. “I’m well enough, I suppose. It’s been...strange. Being here. So far from the Eye. I think...I think I’m coming in and out more than I used to. Like I’m... _Jesus,_ I don’t want to say _fading,_ that’s too dramatic. I’m just...not in control as long anymore.” She sighed, and there was a sound like metal clinking. “Thought I might be able to get back to the estate, when I come back to myself, but...the NotThem can feel it. So far it’s always managed to tell before I take over. Keeps me in place with a handy chain to the wall,” she said, a sound like metal rattling punctuating the statement. 

Martin swallowed roughly, trying to think of something to say that wasn’t a useless apology. 

“And you? Is everyone else okay?” Sasha asked. “Is Tim okay?” Martin hesitated a bit too long before answering, and Sasha prompted, tense, “Martin? Tell me they’re okay.”

“They’re alive,” he said. He thought of Melanie and the screaming from the hospital and shut his eyes against the flood of worry and fear. “I think.”

“ _Martin—“_

“I don’t know if Melanie is,” he admitted, the words sticking in his throat, coming out wrong. “But Tim is. A-and Jon and Basira. They’re still in the estate.”

He heard Sasha sigh, long and slow. “If they’re in the estate they should be safe. The Stranger’s avatars haven’t managed to breach the barrier yet.”

Martin frowned into the darkness of the theater. “How do you know?”

“I hear things,” Sasha said. “They’re more...dormant during the day, but they still whisper things sometimes. There’s been a lot of talk about the estate. And of a...hospital.”

“Oh,” Martin said. 

“Martin?” Sasha prompted.

“That’s how they found me,” he said faintly. “I...I found out my mum was...that she wasn’t doing well, so I went to go see her.”

“Oh, Martin,” Sasha breathed. 

“I think she was actually there, is the funny thing,” he said, tilting his head up to look at the arching ceiling, his vision blurring. “I just had the wrong room. Isn’t that stupid?”

“Martin,” Sasha said, soft. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

He let out a bitter laugh, swallowing roughly. “I think that’s the worst bit, I mean she didn’t...I shouldn’t have gone, she didn’t even _deserve it._ ” He took a shaky breath, so very angry and tired and afraid. “She was awful, and I _still_ left for her. And now it doesn’t even matter, because she’s probably dead now. And Melanie’s probably dead. And I can’t do anything but sit here and wait to see if that’s how I’ll end up too.”

“Yes,” Sasha sighed after a moment. “I understand that frustration.”

“I...” His face burned with sudden shame. Here he was complaining when Sasha had been there, scared and alone, for far longer than he had. “I’m sorry, Sasha, I didn’t—”

“No,” Sasha said, “it’s alright, you don’t...you don’t have to do that.” A pause. “They haven’t hurt you, have they?”

“No,” Martin answered, “not really. I—well, it hurts to talk, if I’m being honest. Strangulation wasn’t ever high on my bucket list. But...they haven’t really touched me much otherwise. Almost like...like they’ve been really careful not to?”

“Right,” Sasha said, after a moment, her voice like a sigh. “That makes sense.”

“Do you...” he couldn’t help but start. He cut himself off, but at Sasha’s questioning noise, he asked, weakly, “do you know why they brought me here?”

“I’m not sure,” Sasha said. “Nikola’s been absent for a while, so I haven’t heard much that’s substantial recently.”

“Nikola?” Martin asked.

“Their ringleader,” she said. “Quite literally.” She sighed. “Fucking clowns.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice shaky. “I think I met her. She said...she said she’d been waiting for me. Wonder why,” he said, fear making his voice sound high and wavering.

There was a pause, and then she said, firmer, “okay. Okay, Martin, worrying about what we don’t know never helps. I’m...I’m going to tell you everything I know about the Stranger, Martin, and you’re going to listen. No more of this fatalistic shit, because I refuse to entertain that, alright?”

Martin huffed a weak laugh, despite himself. God, he’d missed her. “Alright,” he said softly.

“Good,” she said, just as firm. “You know they don’t like bright light. They’re also _very_ susceptible to fire. Most of them are mannequins, or wax figures, or living skin filled with sand—cutting at them with something sharp might slow them down, but it won’t kill them. Fire is the only thing I’ve seen make any impact. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. They’re probably vulnerable to compulsion. Is Jon strong enough to...?”

“I...I don’t know,” Martin admitted. “It’s been taking a toll.” Sasha cursed, but he added, “I might be able to, though,” and she went, abruptly, quiet. 

“The Web?” she asked carefully, after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“Hm. How’s that?”

“It’s really weird.”

“Figures,” she said. “That might bode well for you getting out of here, though.”

Martin sighed, absently pulling at his bindings again. He decided not to mention he couldn’t see any hint of the Web here. “Maybe.”

Sasha went quiet for a few moments. Martin allowed himself the luxury of pretending, just for a moment, that they were sharing the silence and the company as they might have any given morning at the estate. He’d taken it all for granted, then. 

“Martin?” Sasha finally said, her voice a bit tentative.

“Yeah?”

He heard her take a slightly shaky breath. “Could we...do you think we could just talk about...mundane things? For a bit? I don’t...I don’t know how much longer the NotThem will be dormant,” she admitted, as Martin’s heart twisted in his chest. “It’s just been a while since I’ve talked to anyone.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, his throat thick, “of course, what...what do you want to talk about?”

Sasha was quiet for a moment, considering. Then she said, “did I ever tell you about the first time I ever made macarons? My apartment nearly burning down wasn’t even the worst of it...”

And so, they spoke, as if they weren’t small creatures in a den of wolves. Like they were seated across from each other at the estate’s dining table. Like any other morning. 

When Sasha stopped responding, it took a moment for Martin to recognize it for what it was. He heard the change in breathing, and then the sudden heavy clank of chains on the floor. And then, nothing. 

“Sasha?” he asked, voice shaking, but there was no sound in response other than footsteps, drawing further away. 

So he screwed his eyes shut against the threat of tears, and he waited in silence. And he swore to himself he would get Sasha James back. 

* * *

When nightfall came again—or what he thought was nightfall—so did the voices. He ignored them the best he could, closing his eyes so he couldn’t pick out their outlines in the dark. But there was that one, he couldn’t help but notice, that was always just before him in the darkness beyond the spotlight. Staring. Studying. 

As the minutes wore on, the thing crept closer, and closer, until, for the first time, it slowly stepped into the light, a few feet from where Martin sat. Martin’s breath caught in his throat. 

It was Jon. The thing looked like Jon, exactly. The noises of the others around them fell away, as Martin’s heart beat louder and louder in his chest, and he felt utterly incapable of drawing his eyes away. 

The thing that looked like Jon moved down to a crouch slowly, it’s eyes—Jon’s eyes—watching him, a bit too wide. A hand that looked like Jon’s hand reached out and lighted gently on Martin’s knee. 

“Stop,” Martin gasped out, trying to draw away from the touch, but he had no leverage to move back. 

The thing didn’t seem to hear, just tilted Jon’s head and gently brushed a thumb over his knee. Then, in Jon’s voice, it said, “ _I’m glad you’re here.”_

“Stop,” Martin said again, his breath coming shorter and thinner in his lungs. He couldn’t seem to find enough strength for the word to make it a compulsion. It came out weak, panicked. “ _Stop—_ ”

 _“I’m glad they took you away,”_ Jon said, soft and earnest.

“Stop it,” Martin breathed, turning his head away. “You’re not real, you’re not—“

_“The Web made a monster of you—”_

“Shut _up—_ ”

_“I could never love a thing like you.”_

“ _Stop_ ,” Martin sobbed, his eyes screwed shut, pressing as far as he could against the back of the chair. “Stop, stop, stop—”

He cut off, his eyes startling open when a hand brushed his face. It felt cold, waxy, plastic-like. Nothing like Jon’s touch, but when it moved against his skin, and he stared at those eyes that looked so very much like Jon’s, suddenly that surety...muddied. Maybe...maybe Jon’s touch had felt like that. 

Hadn’t it?

It...it had, hadn’t it. Of course it had. How had he remembered it any other way?

Jon looked down at him, another hand lighting on Martin’s other cheek so that he cradled his face. _“You were always going to doom us, Martin,”_ Jon said. He gently brushed a tear that fell down Martin’s cheek. _“This is all your fault.”_

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispered, his throat tight with tears, “I didn’t mean for—for any of this to happen, I—”

 _“I don’t care,”_ Jon said flatly. His blunt fingers pressed into the sides of Martin’s face as he stooped lower. _“I’m going to die, and it’s all your fault.”_

“No,” Martin sobbed. “Jon, please—”

 _“This is your fault,”_ Jon said, his voice strangely monotone. _“Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.”_

And suddenly, the voices of the others around him were saying it as well. Melanie’s voice and Tim’s and Basira’s and Daisy’s. 

Martin’s breath came shorter and faster, his eyes screwed shut, as he tried desperately to block the sound out, but they were so loud, and they were right, of course they were _right—_

But then he felt it. A familiar feeling. Distant, but just barely there. 

The feeling of being watched over, from very far away. 

“Jon,” he breathed. And he remembered. How had he forgotten? Of course Jon wasn’t there with him, he was back at the estate. And now Jon was reaching out to look for Martin, and he must have been straining himself—Christ, what was he thinking? 

The feeling remained, weak, but steady, and while Martin was grateful for it, he couldn’t help but wish he could tell Jon to stop. What would happen to him if he pushed too hard, if he looked too long? God, Martin had to get back to him before he did.

 _“Your fault.”_ The thing before him kept saying. _“Your fault—”_

“Oh, shut up, will you!” Martin snapped, opening his eyes and glaring. “Repetition isn’t as fucking scary as you think.”

The thing that looked like Jon blinked at him, it’s hands falling away, and, for the first time, the voices around him went eerily silent. 

“Finally,” Martin muttered. He sighed, for a moment, closing his eyes and focusing solely on the feeling of Jon’s distant gaze. Martin had to get out of there, somehow. Had to get back to him. 

_“I could never love y—”_

“Seriously?” Martin blurted, glaring again. The thing with Jon’s form actually took a step back. “First of all, the real Jon would never say any of that. Second of all, fuck you.” 

The thing looked like it didn’t know how to react to that, standing still and staring at him. Martin had another scathing criticism ready for it, but he froze at a new sound that came from behind him. The sound of a door opening and closing, and then footsteps striding across the theater floor. 

The mimic went very stiff, then dropped to the floor, scrambling back on all fours to leave the spotlight in favor of the dark. Martin saw, as soon as it left the light, it’s dim silhouette looked far more like something with visible, twisting metal joints, and a blank face. Like a mannequin.

It was scared of something. Whatever was coming up behind him. Martin tried to turn, but could only look so far. The footsteps sounded over the stage, coming closer and closer, and as his eyes scanned, wide, he caught a flash of color in his periphery. 

Then, a painted, grinning face on plastic stepped into the light. Martin’s breath caught as it stepped into the light fully, neck craning to look up at it. The mannequin was dressed in a ringmaster’s costume, red and gold and bright, and though the painted face could not change in expression, Martin thought, somehow, the thing looked _pleased._ “ _So_ sorry to have kept you waiting!” the thing that must have been Nikola said. “You see, that was actually the whole point—to keep you here, until the barrier falls! But, the thing is, no one tells you just how _boring_ waiting is! So,” Nikola continued, closing in on him, “I decided that, maybe, there’s really a better idea to be had.”

Martin swallowed around the sudden dryness of his throat. “What idea?” 

“Well, we thought it would be enough just to take you, you see. Remove another servant of the Eye. And one that the Archivist was _particularly_ fond of. We did think that would do it, but...the Eye is still keeping us out, you see.” Nikola just looked at him then, that painted smile unmoving. Despite himself, despite the fact that he could still feel Jon watching, distantly, that fear he’d kept at bay began to trickle back, slowly turning his blood to ice.

Nikola gave a little sigh, tilting their head. “But then, I thought, why should I keep this gift from the Web waiting? We shouldn’t just let you go to waste.”

“What? Wait. What—what do you mean? Gift from the Web?”

Nikola laughed. “Well, isn’t it obvious? _You_ are the Eye’s last hope! The only way they can use the book of the Web, and you’ve ended up here instead. With us. The Web has _given_ you to us. The Web’s chosen the Stranger over the Eye!”

Martin blanched. “No—” 

“Oh, yes!” Nikola exclaimed. “The Mother has finally chosen a side. She’s chosen us.”

“No,” Martin said thoughtlessly, shaking his head. That wasn’t—it couldn’t... 

Could it?

He’d followed the golden string from his mother to leave the estate. But...hadn’t that been _his_ choice? And there was also that golden figure, part of the Web given life, that had stared at him and shook its head. It hadn’t wanted him to leave.

Nikola began to say something else, but Martin’s attention was suddenly caught by a flash of movement near the ground. There was a spider on Nikola’s leg. Nikola didn’t seem to feel it, judging by the way they kept talking. Martin flicked his gaze up at their face before they could notice his staring, but he made sure to keep careful track of the spider in his periphery. 

It circled a particular area of the leg, where the joint must have been. Martin thought, compared to the other leg, it poked strangely at the fabric, as if there was something there that didn’t work quite right. 

A weak spot, perhaps. 

As soon as he thought it, gold flashed, for a moment, at the edges of his vision. Like a confirmation. 

“So, you see,” Nikola was saying, as Martin began to pay attention again, “we think the Archivist needs to fall further.” Martin frowned up at them, a feeling of dread creeping as he considered what that might mean. “And we,” Nikola said, gesturing to the darkness behind them where Martin could suddenly make out the large shape of the man from the hospital and, on Nikola’s right, the NotThem, pale with dead, black eyes, “we thought, we can do better than just keep you here. And besides,” Nikola said, looking down at him, “you have such lovely skin, after all.”

“What?” Martin breathed, horrified. 

He tried to jerk away when Nikola reached out, but had nowhere to move. Hard, plastic fingers dug into his jaw and turned his head right and then left with bruising strength. 

“You’re practically untouched!” Nikola observed joyfully. “A bit of bruising, but the skin always bruises a little, with the skinning process. When we had the Archivist, he was already sullied you see, scars everywhere—we would have used him out of necessity, mind you, but...it’s always so much better when you can pick and choose. And your skin is love—” Their voice cut off when their fingers traced down his arm and looked at his right hand. Their grip tightened painfully and they flipped Martin’s hand over, palm up, fast and violent enough that his wrist burned against the binds. He hissed in pain, but it was drowned out by Nikola’s suddenly furious exclamation. “What is _this?”_ A hard, plastic thumb dug into the raised scar on his palm.

Martin’s heart beat out of his chest, Nikola’s slowly tightening grip on his hand becoming agonizing. “I— _ah_ , please let go—”

“I told you not to mark him!” Nikola hissed, turning to look at the man from the hospital. 

“I didn’t do that,” the man protested.

Nikola’s grip tightened and Martin cried out. “Well _someone—_ ”

“ ** _Let me go_** _,_ ” Martin grit out, gold blooming at the edges of his vision.

Nikola went stiff, turning to look at him slowly, but their grip on him didn’t loosen or drop away. Nikola shivered. “That _is_ an interesting feeling,” they said, as Martin’s heart sank, “but I’m afraid that won’t work on me, little weaver.” Their grip dug in harder, jagged plastic digging into his palm, and he cried out again, tears springing to his eyes as hot blood welled up and ran down his hand. “You’re young still,” Nikola said. “Shame you never got to practice much.” When they finally released his hand he doubled over in relief, watching his fingers tremble through blurry eyes. 

Distantly, he thought the feeling of Jon’s eyes on him felt stronger, as if he was fighting to look more intently. Martin stared at his hand and tried not to cry.

“The hand’s shot,” the NotThem said, it’s head tilting.

“We can do without it,” Nikola said, primly. “Hands are a dime a dozen, nowadays.”

“Can I have it?” the man from the hospital asked Nikola. “‘E ruined mine,” he said, raising his right arm, and when it flashed in the light Martin saw the gouges in the skin, where his nails had clawed. There was nothing inside but sand that trickled out slowly with every movement. 

“You may,” Nikola said, waving a hand. They already sounded cheery again. “Keep the rest intact, so he’ll flay easier.”

“Up to the elbow?” the man asked, cruel eyes raking over Martin like he was a piece of meat. Martin’s breath caught when the man pulled out a knife that didn’t look at all sharp enough to cut through bone easily.

“Wait—” Martin gasped out, terror sharp in his lungs.

“Yes, fine,” Nikola said over him. “But that’s all.”

“Hope could make use of the other one—”

“You get one,” Nikola said, almost scolding. “The rest is for me. We waste no more skin, the weaver is a _gift_ from the _Mother_.”

The man huffed a breath and said, flatly, “fine.” The metal of the knife glinted as he stepped into the spotlight.

“Wait,” Martin begged, pressing himself further back into the chair, away from the sharp glint of metal, “wait, please, please don’t do this—the—the Web doesn’t want this, please, please—” Martin gasped out a terrified breath when the man pressed his right shoulder against the wood of the chair, keeping his arm more still, even as he tried to writhe away. The knife—huge, slightly rusted—reflected his terrified expression, and hovered over the end of his forearm.

“Of course the Web wants this!” Nikola exclaimed. “We waited at the hospital hoping, ensuring that your mother teetered on the brink of life, just waiting for you to notice. And you did! In the knick of time. The Web must have wanted it to be so.”

“No,” Martin breathed, looking from Nikola to the knife, hovering over his skin. “No, no, no, this—this isn’t right—”

“Of course it’s right! It’s perfect! The perfect spectacle to bring the Archivist to his knees!”

Despite the mind numbing panic, one word stood out to him. “Spectacle?” he asked weakly.

“Yes! For the Archivist! We’ve made it so he can see us, you understand! A little shifting of power, of the dark, to make us just the right amount of visible to him. Your death— _seeing_ you die—it should be enough to weaken the Eye even further. The barrier should come down shortly after. And then we can reach _him_ too!”

Martin stared at Nikola, acutely aware of Jon’s eyes on him, more intent than they had ever been, as if Jon thought he could intervene by watching alone, through sheer willpower. 

_Oh,_ Martin thought, latching onto the idea that popped up at the thought. _That was_ it.

The man from the hospital shifted his grip, about to bring the knife down, when Martin blurted, “wait, wait—he can’t! He can’t see us!”

The man from the hospital froze, looking to Nikola, who had also gone very still, their painted eyes locked on Martin. “What?” they asked, after a tense, dangerous moment. 

“J-Jon, the Archivist, he—he’s gotten weaker, like you said,” Martin explained frantically, “h-he can’t even see as far as town for more than a few seconds, l-let alone...wherever we are.”

Martin watched Nikola breathlessly in the silence, praying to anything that might be listening—the Mother, the Eye, _anything. Please,_ he thought, _Please don’t let them know Jon’s watching._

Martin glanced at the NotThem, who was watching him with shark-like eyes and added, breathlessly, “you know. You know, because Sasha knew. You know how weak he’s gotten. You know I’m telling you the truth. _Please_.” 

Nikola whirled to look at the NotThem, their plastic fingers curling into fists. “Well?” Nikola asked, their voice higher with evident frustration. 

The NotThem stared at Martin long enough that his heart sank. It wasn’t going to say anything, they wouldn’t believe him, they’d flay him and kill him there and then while Jon forced himself to watch—

“The Archivist _was_ weak,” the NotThem said, surprising Martin into stillness. “He might not be able to see this far.”

Nikola went very quiet for a few, heartstopping seconds. When they spoke again, their voice was eerily calm. “That’s disappointing.” They looked at the man from the hospital. “Just slit his throat then, Breekon,” they said with a sigh. 

Martin stiffened, the terror rushing back. “Wait, wait, wait—“ Breekon stepped behind him, grip tightening on his shoulder as the blade came closer and Martin gasped out, desperately, “wait, I thought y-you wanted Jon to watch?”

“I do,” Nikola said, whiny disappointment in her voice, like a child being denied their favorite toy. “I do, but...this must all end tonight, I’m afraid. We’ve been waiting for years to come to full power, and it _will_ happen tonight.”

“What—what if the barrier doesn’t fall?” Martin asked, desperately grasping for anything to stay her hand. 

“Your death should be enough,” Nikola told him, looking to Hope, but before they could give any final order, Martin blurted, “why take that chance? When you can still kill me in front of him?”

Nikola stilled, looking at him. “What do you mean?”

“He—he can’t leave the estate,” Martin scrambled to explain, watching the knife warily at the corner of his eye. “He’ll fall to the Stranger if he does, right? So...bring me to the outskirts of the estate. Beyond the gate. Do it there where he’ll be able to see.”

Martin waited, his heart in his throat, watching Nikola visibly mull it over. “You’ll be right there when the barrier falls as well,” he added, desperate. 

“What about the wolf?” the NotThem murmured to Nikola, it’s eyes flat and staring at Martin. “And the one of the Slaughter,” it said, as Martin felt a flood of hope. _Melanie._ “She still hasn’t been caught,” the NotThem said.

“I’d expect you and Hope to deal with it,” Nikola snapped, head swiveling to look at them. “Or can’t you handle a few knives and some teeth?”

The NotThem said nothing, but did not protest again. 

Nikola turned back to him, head tilting, and Martin swore that painted smile on their face looked wider. “It is a wonderful solution, little weaver,” Nikola said, as Martin felt a strange mingled relief and dread. “I hope you’re ready to see your Archivist.”

* * *

And so, they made their way toward the estate. They traveled on foot from what Martin thought was a bit further from town. 

It was strange, to be out at night. Curious avatars watched their trek from the shadows, their eyes gleaming, hungry, but none approached. Martin winced at the occasional scream that broke the silence of the night, from some unlucky victim, somewhere.

It was a relief to be out of that theater, away from their stronghold, in more ways than one, but he was particularly relieved to see the golden threads of the Web around him again. Hundreds of them, arching and weaving their way through town as they passed by, between avatars they passed. He almost thought they hummed louder, as if they’d missed him too. Still, it wasn’t as though he could reach out to them, not now.

He was pulled along between Breekon and Hope, each of them clutching one of his arms in bruising grips, as he stumbled to keep up with their brutal pace. He supposed it was better than being tied down to a chair, at any rate. His muscles were stiff and aching from having been in one place for so long, and after a while, it was easier to just stop trying to match their strides and let them drag him along. Better that way. Let them think he was beaten. 

Instead, he kept his mind on what on earth he was going to do next, as they entered the forest that would lead them to the estate. 

Martin could feel Jon’s eyes on him still, though the feeling was coming in and out now, as if Jon was wavering, still trying to watch even as his strength was failing. Martin wanted to scream at him to stop, that he’d been looking to long, what was he _thinking—_

But he couldn’t. Jon couldn’t hear him, and he couldn’t indicate to the monsters around that anyone was watching. 

He kept his eyes low, as the ground rushed below him. He ignored the way his arms ached from being held up, ignored the discomfort of his boots dragging along the underbrush. Instead, he watched Nikola walking out of the corner of his eye, and noted carefully how they clearly favored their right leg over their left. 

A well placed blow might be able to take it out entirely. 

But there were so many of them—Breekon and Hope and the NotThem—as well as the few monsters that trailed farther behind, still parroting familiar voices. He needed an opening, and he racked his mind to come up with something, anything that might give him a chance of slipping out of their grasp. 

_What about the wolf,_ the NotThem had said. 

Martin’s breath caught in his throat. Of course. Daisy. He lifted his head up just enough so that he could focus his blurry vision on his hand, crusted over with blood. For a moment, he swore his vision was wreathed in gold.

He stared, an idea forming, and it wasn’t one he particularly liked, but...he couldn’t leave this to chance. 

He let his head hang for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a steadying few breaths. Then, he dug his fingers into the dried-over wound, drawing fresh blood. He closed his throat around the whimper that threatened to escape, his hand shaking as the blood ran down his palm, dripping down to the forest floor below. 

He chanced a look at Hope on his right, relief flooding him when the man still had his eyes looking straight ahead, oblivious.

Martin allowed himself to let a whimper escape when they dragged him over a particularly prominent tree root, his hand throbbing with pain. He slowly let his fingers unfurl, watching hazily as the blood dripped, sluggish, to the ground. 

_Come on, Daisy,_ he thought, closing his eyes and letting his head hang. _Odd blood, right? Come find me._

He let his mind drift a little with the exhaustion he’d been fighting off, blinking down at the ground as it rushed below. Jon’s gaze still felt faint, even as they drew closer. 

But, for a moment, a familiar flickering thread flashed in the air, trailing in front of him, and it felt... _close._

_Jon, Jon, Jon—_

Martin let himself look up, just for a moment, and saw the distant gate surrounding the estate. And the familiar figure just behind it, watching them approach with wide eyes.

 _Jon,_ he thought, his eyes raking over every detail, even as his vision blurred with the desperate relief that nearly took him over. Martin really thought he’d never get to see him again. He let himself look, and noticed the way Jon’s hands shook, before they wrapped around the iron of the fence. The way Jon looked like he was leaning against it just to support his weight. 

Martin wanted to fight his way out of Breekon and Hope’s grip and run over to him then and there, but he forced himself to wait. He wouldn’t make it, not yet. 

As they got closer, Martin saw Basira a little ways away from the gate, a rifle leveled in her hands, and another figure by the open door that must have been Tim. 

Their procession stopped about ten feet from the gate. Martin stared at Jon’s shoes, keeping his head down, letting himself hang between Breekon and Hope even as his arms burned. Let them think he was beaten, exhausted. Let them think he wasn’t going to try anything. 

“Jon, darling!” Nikola said, their cheeriness ear-grating. They stepped in front of him, and Martin stared at their left leg, trembling in anticipation. Not yet. Not yet, not yet...

 _Daisy,_ he thought, his heart racing, _where are you?_

“It’s so lovely to see you again, Jon,” Nikola said. “As old friends, we really should have done this sooner—“

“ ** _Let him go_** **,** ” Jon grit out, power wavering in his voice. 

Nikola made a sound like a sigh, and, almost faster than Martin could register, there was a glint of metal and then Nikola was yanking his head back by his hair. Martin caught a flash of Jon’s wide eyes and his white knuckled grip on the iron bars, before he was looking up at the stars, his throat bare. 

“So _rude,_ ” Nikola tutted. Martin’s neck ached with the uncomfortable angle, but he went very still when something dangerously sharp ghosted over the base of his throat, just above his collar bone. 

“No! Wait,” he heard Jon say, his voice strained, trembling. “Wait, I—I’m sorry. Please. Please, don’t hurt him.”

“Ah, I do like the sound of you begging, Jon,” Nikola said joyfully. The tip of the knife pressed a little harder, not quite drawing blood, but still enough to make Martin wince, his chest heaving with his terrified breaths. 

_Come on, Daisy,_ he thought, desperately, screwing his eyes shut, _come on._

“Please,” Jon said again, “please, he—he hasn’t done anything to you, Nikola, please—”

“No, I suppose he hasn’t, really. Have you?” Nikola asked playfully, jerking his head back up to meet their eyes. 

“Fuck you,” Martin breathed, narrowing his eyes at them.

He barely heard Jon’s intake of breath, or the distant sound of Basira pulling back the bolt of the rifle. Nikola laughed, then brought the tip of the knife to the top of his throat. “You have a lovely little voice, has anyone ever told you?” Nikola asked, painted eyes boring holes into him. “I think I’ll start there. Carve it out of you and take it for my own. Wouldn’t that be nice, Jon?” they asked, looking back in the direction of the estate. 

“No—” Jon gasped out.

“Then,” Nikola continued merrily, “you could hear his lovely voice even after he’s dead!”

“No,” Jon said, an awful desperation in his voice that Martin had never heard before. “No, no, please, Nikola, you—you can have the book, you can have anything—“

“I already have what I want,” Nikola said, turning their eyes back on Martin, their grip on the knife shifting. 

Daisy wouldn’t come in time, Martin realized, as Nikola ignored Jon’s increasingly frantic pleas. He couldn’t fight them all off. Disbelief and utter helplessness rushed through him, his heart pounding in his ears. 

He looked at Jon, saw him wide-eyed and leaning against the fence, and tried to convey everything he felt in a single look. He knew exactly what he wanted his last words to be. 

He took a breath, opening his mouth, just as a piercing howl split the air, sounding very, very close.

Nikola froze, and Martin had a moment to go breathless with relief before all hell broke loose. 

Daisy broke through the treeline in a full sprint, mouth open and teeth on display as she snarled, and before Hope could move on Martin’s right, her teeth were clamping down on his leg. The NotThem lunged to attack, but Daisy’s claws swiped and nearly caught it, forcing it to retreat back. A gunshot rang out, and suddenly Breekon at Martin’s left was stumbling back, clutching at a hole in his chest that poured out sand. 

“No!” Nikola screamed, as another shot rang out, knife clutched in their plastic grip turned on Daisy, “You’re ruining _everything!”_

Martin scrambled to his feet, using Hope’s grip on his right arm and what little momentum he had to kick out with the whole of his body weight, aiming his boot right at the knee joint. 

The joint snapped like a twig under his boot, bending backwards and sending Nikola to the ground with an inhuman shriek.

Martin stumbled, jerking out of Hope’s clawing grip, and he ignored the sounds behind him, just ran, and ran, faster than he thought he’d ever moved before. 

Someone had opened the gate for him, and when Martin barrelled through it, Jon’s hand reached out to grab his arm and then they were running toward the open door of the estate, held open by Tim, looking from the scene behind them back to them with wide, fearful eyes. Basira followed, walking backwards, firing into the shrieking chaos behind them. 

Martin stumbled over the entryway, leaning into Jon as Jon guided them to lean against the wall, behind the unopened door. Martin breathed heavily, shaking with adrenaline, as Basira finally crossed the threshold, firing off one last shot before Tim slammed the door shut. Everything went abruptly quiet, and the frantic blur of his thoughts finally calmed enough for him to think, _oh. I made it._

It seemed like Jon came to the same realization in the same moment, because Martin felt all his breath leave him in a rush as he pulled Martin closer, his arms winding around him, hands trembling against the thin, ripped fabric of his sweater. Martin let out a sob, burrowing into the embrace, burying his face into the curve of Jon’s neck. The familiar fabric of Jon’s hood tickled his nose. Martin let the smell of him and the warmth of his arms wash away the primal terror of the past few days. As the adrenaline wore away, leaving him shaky and tired, he clutched Jon closer, like a lifeline.

He didn’t really register what the others were doing, but he heard the sounds of scraping chairs against the floor, and the moving of heavy objects. _A barricade,_ Martin thought distantly. He supposed that made sense.

It wasn’t over after all.

After a long time, Jon pulled away, just far enough to look Martin over with wide eyes. “Are—are you, are you alright? Y-You’re not hurt, or?” His trembling fingers skirted over Martin’s wrists and his hand, tracing over the bruising at his throat, agonizingly gentle even as his eyes narrowed.

“I’m better now,” Martin said, breathless relief clear in his voice. 

Jon’s hands trembled at the sides of his face. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, his eyes wide, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know they had—I should have known, I-I never should have let you leave—”

“It’s not your fault,” Martin assured him, placing his hands over Jon’s, entwining their fingers. “It’s okay. I—I’m okay.”

A loud, angry shrieking sounded from outside. Jon tensed, his hands dropping to Martin’s arms as he looked at the door. Basira peered out from the corner of the boarded windows by the door, and cursed. 

She looked at them. “We have to get further inside. Now.”

“What happened?” Tim asked, returning with the last chair from the kitchen and adding it to the barricade. 

“Daisy’s still trying to hold them off. But one of them passed the gate,” Basira answered tersely. 

Martin blanched, as Jon’s grip on him tightened. “No. No, they...they’re strong enough to pass through?”

“The Eye’s weakened a lot since you left,” Basira said simply, looking at Jon. 

Jon bristled. “I _had_ to look for him—“

“Shut up,” Tim interrupted, glaring at them. “We don’t have time for this. Let’s get further inside, now.” 

“Wait,” Martin gasped out, turning to look at Jon, “is—is Melanie...?”

Jon shook his head. “We haven’t seen her since you left.”

“If she’s out there, she’s better off than us,” Basira grit out, hefting the gun over her shoulder. She started off further inside. 

Martin breathed out a shivering breath, glancing down and blinking away frustrated tears. He had to hope she was okay. She would be okay. 

He looked up when Tim moved closer, meeting his eyes. Tim looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, unshaven. There was some intense emotion in his eyes when he looked at him, but Martin couldn’t quite place it. “You’re okay?” Tim asked, after a moment.

Martin nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m...I’m alright. Are you?”

Tim just looked at him, then down at the floor between them. “Martin, I—“

Something from outside banged against the double doors, and they jumped. The barricade held in place, but the air was full of fear once again. 

“Later,” Jon said hoarsely, taking Martin’s hand. “We have to go, come on.” 

They walked down the foyer, steps quickening with every distant sound from outside. They turned a corner, and Martin skidded to a stop when a figure of gold blocked their path.

Only, this time, it looked less like a faceless figure. Less like just a silhouette. Martin could see hints of features on its face, a sloping nose, almond shaped eyes, a wave of curls. The outline of clothing. It was still too bright to see fine details, but there was so much more...life in it.

“Martin?” Jon asked, frantic. “Martin, what’s wrong?”

 _“You have been led back,”_ the figure said, and Martin swore, now, that it sounded more like a voice—like a person—than it felt like a feeling. 

Martin stared at it, dumbstruck, as Jon and Tim stared at him. “You’re talking now?”

“Martin?” Tim asked, clearly a little disquieted. 

_“I am clearer,”_ the figure responded. _“No longer kept. No longer pinned.”_

“What does that mean?” Martin breathed.

The figure tilted their head, and reached out a hand. _“I can show you, now.”_

Martin stared at the outstretched hand, feeling breathless. _Answers,_ he thought, _answers,_ the _answer, it must be—_

“Martin?” Jon asked again, his hand on his shoulder. 

Martin slowly drew his gaze away to look at Jon. 

He supposed, after all, Nikola was right about one thing. His grip tightened around Jon’s hand, a comforting weight, as he looked back at the figure, who looked far, far more like a _person_. “This ends tonight,” Martin breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's FINALE TIME FOLKS--hold onto your butts!
> 
> Rip to Martin’s poor hand, it’s never gonna work right again
> 
> God, I'm such a clown, I really thought hm, yes, all this content i have planned will fit into one chapter and it will be a reasonable length and take me a reasonable amount of time to write. Clown. Clown shit. I'm like the personification of that John Mulaney skit where he's like "surely more letters will fit in the same space" but with my chapter content 😂 Like there was originally supposed to be MORE in this chapter. Like that wasn't where i planned to end it!!! Clown. 
> 
> Anyway 😂 we'll see how the next chapter pans out. If I need to, I'll tack one more on, because the last chapter was always meant to be more of a "what happens after" chapter. We'll see lol. Hope you guys enjoyed this wild chapter. Also can you tell humor is my coping mechanism? Bc this chapter. contained many tense horrors and I amused myself by writing little moments of levity


	25. The Watcher

“We don’t have time for this,” Tim hissed, as Martin followed the golden figure back down the direction of the foyer.

“Is it the Web?” Jon asked, looking from Martin to the hallway that sprawled before them, as if he could see it too if he stared hard enough. “That...figure that you spoke of before?”

“Yes,” Martin answered, shifting his grip on Jon’s hand as he kept his eyes on their guide. “It’s clearer now. More intact, more like an actual person. There has to be a reason why, it has to be connected to the book.”

“Hold on,” Tim said, on his left, “what _figure?”_

Martin glanced at him nervously, before explaining, tentatively, “it’s part of the Web, it’s...a remnant of someone’s memory.”

Tim stared at him for two whole beats of silence, before exclaiming, “so it’s a _ghost?”_

“I don’t really think we should call it that,” Jon said dryly. “The term ghost is so reductive—“

“Oh yeah? What would _you_ call it then?” Tim shot back, glaring at him over Martin’s shoulder.

“A-A manifestation, or a—“

“Specter? Ghoul? A spook?”

“I really don’t think that _matters_ ,” Martin tried to interrupt, but as they passed by the front doors again and were led to the base of the stairs, a rumbling growl from outside more effectively cut them all off.

Jon pulled him closer, his hand tightening its grip on his, but none of them looked away from the double doors, piled over with chairs and tables, but still so...fragile. A flimsy barrier between them and what waited. 

“That sounded like Daisy,” Jon murmured.

“This is stupid,” Tim breathed, fear wavering in his voice, “we should be—we should be barricading ourselves in—in the archive, someplace _defensible—”_

“And then what?” Martin pointed out. “Just twiddle our thumbs and wait to die?”

Tim gave a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Martin, if you think I’m just going to sit around and let them take me without a fight, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Of course, Martin thought, feeling stupid for not insisting on it before. Tim was right, they _were_ wasting time, in a way _._ “Tim,” he said, “Tim, look, when...when Nikola had me, I was able to talk to Sasha. For a bit,” he continued, watching as Tim’s eyes widened and became watery, “and she told me that they’re most susceptible to fire. So, if you...if you want to try to make it a fairer fight...”

Tim looked back at him, and, after a moment, he began to nod, a look of understanding in his eyes. The slight upturn at the corner of his mouth almost could’ve been mistaken for a smile. “Sash always had her priorities straight,” he said.

Martin felt an answering, small smile twitch on his face. “You still have that full bottle of absinthe? Very flammable, I hear.”

Tim’s smile grew into an almost frightening grin. “Oh, Marto, you are speaking my language.”

“Lord,” Jon groused, “Tim, let’s not confuse pyromania with any skill involved in making Molotov cocktails—”

“What, like it’s _hard?”_

“Oh, it _would_ be a suitable end to our tale of woe if you burned down the estate while we were _still inside—“_

 _“Time is dwindling,”_ the golden figure said calmly from the top of the stairs, as Tim, oblivious, shot back something Martin didn’t register.

“Look,” Martin said loudly, drawing his eyes away from the figure and cutting the both of them off, “it’s a better back up plan than we have otherwise, right?” he asked Jon, who was, begrudgingly silent. 

“So what, exactly, is your plan A, Martin?” Tim asked, arms crossed. 

“Um,” he said, glancing nervously up at the figure at the top of the stairs, who did not provide any gleaming insight, “not letting you all...die?”

Tim stared back for a moment, face flat, before clapping his hands together. “Well, best of luck. I’m off to find some flammable pesticides in the greenhouse. Maybe some nice hefty gardening tools. A pitchfork, even, if our luck is so inclined.”

“Be careful,” Jon told him, as he moved to pass them, “the greenhouse is exposed. They may be able to break through.”

“I’ll be fine,” Tim said, waving a careless hand. “I’ll head back to the archive when I’m done. Pretty sure Basira’s already gotten started on fortifying it.” Tim glanced at Martin, and though his expression never changed, his voice seemed, inexplicably, softer. “Try not to get killed by your ghost or anything. None of us are worth that.”

Martin blinked at him. “I,” he started, but when he got out “...won’t” Tim was already gone. 

Another scream sounded from outside, a not-quite-human sound. Jon’s hand again tightened in his, the other gripping his arm. “We shouldn’t be so close to the doors,” he murmured.

Martin nodded in agreement, looking back up the stairs, where the golden figure still stood. “Let’s go,” he said, softly. 

It was not a shock, where they were eventually led. The suspicion grew in Martin's chest when they passed by the doors of the archive, and down the hall, taking familiar twists and turns. They followed, until, finally, the golden figure stopped at the ornate, ominous door of Elias Bouchard’s office.

Of course, Martin thought, distantly, staring. Of course it was this room. Martin could see all the golden threads streaming from it, pulsing, perhaps almost as many as from the statements in the archive. This room _thrummed_ with them, like the heart of the house itself.

The figure stared at Martin, almost expectant. 

Martin shook his head, a sudden rush of anxiety running through him. “We don’t have the key,” he told the figure. 

“It wants us to go in Elias’ office?” Jon asked.

“I think so,” Martin answered him, staring at the figure helplessly. “I’m sorry, we don’t have the key—”

 _“You do,”_ it said.

Martin furrowed his brow. “I...don’t—”

_“You do. You are of the Web. Like I was. Like I am. Like I will be.”_

“I don’t understand,” Martin admitted, exhaustion seeping into his words.

The figure’s head tilted. Curls of gold bounced, the outline of their eyes narrowed. They looked so very close to _alive,_ their movement, their expression, just shy of being seen.

 _“The Web,”_ the figure said, _“is what has been. What is. What may be. All this at once. For us, it is all this at once. Memory, and yet-to-be memory.”_

“What is it saying?” Jon asked him, hushed.

Strangely breathless, Martin repeated what he heard. 

_“You will open the door,”_ the figure said, _“because it has been opened before.”_

The figure reached out a hand, golden fingers splayed, and hovered over the doorknob. It stared at him, expectant. 

Martin stared at its hand, entranced. “You’ve opened it before,” he breathed.

The figure looked at him, and waited. Martin took a step closer. 

“Wait,” Jon hissed, grabbing his arm, “what are you doing?”

“I’m going to open the door,” Martin said faintly, his eyes locked on the hand hovering over the doorknob.

“Wait,” Jon said again, moving to stand in front of him. His hands settled gently on the sides of Martin’s face. His eyes were narrowed slightly, his shoulders tense, and Martin could read the clear concern off him like reading a book. “You...what if what happened before, with the Web and the portrait and the Lonely, what if...” Jon breathed out a breath, glancing down, then back up at him. “I’m afraid you might get lost,” he said, softly. 

Martin swallowed around the sudden emotion that welled up in his throat, his hands moving to curl around Jon’s. “I won’t,” he whispered.

“But—“

“I won’t,” Martin said again, taking Jon’s hand in his and pressing a kiss to the back of it, “because even if I do, you’ll be here to bring me back.”

Jon breathed out roughly, eyes wide, and Martin took the moment in which Jon’s grip loosened in surprise to slip past, and reach for the doorknob. 

He sunk his hand into the figure’s, like slipping into a glove, and—

_The sun shone from the windows at the end of the hall, warming his skin. A smile was already spreading across his face even before he opened the door because he could hear the sound of pacing from inside. The doorknob turned under his hand, unlocked—Jonah never locked it when it was just he and Jonah in the house, an implicit sign of trust, that there was nothing to lock away, that he knew every part of Jonah already, so why hide anything?_

_The door opened, the pacing stopped, and then he appeared around the door, a small smile growing on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling, a hand lighting on his waist. “Barnabas,” Jonah murmured, his voice curling around the syllables of his name like honey, “finally tired of that godawful treatise?”_

_He could feel a smile creeping onto his face as well, and gave in to the urge to trace his fingers over the line of Jonah’s cheekbone. “Actually, I was distracted by the sound of you wearing a hole into the floor, love.”_

_“Right,” Jonah said, drawing closer, his lovely blue eyes raking over his face, lingering on his mouth, “and now you’re distracting me.”_

_“Lord forbid I distract from your pacing,” he answered, a hair’s breadth away, Jonah’s breath ghosting over his face. “Are you still going to Wiltshire tomorrow?” he heard himself ask._

_And, suddenly, he went cold. The smile was still plastered on his face, as Jonah answered, as if everything was fine, as if nothing was wrong._

_Jonah spoke about leaving on the train, as he heard a roaring in his ears, even as he automatically answered back as if nothing was wrong, that smile still plastered on his face and Jonah’s eyes looking far kinder than he, somehow, knew they ever would be again._

_It was before Lukas, before the Eye had tightened it’s hold, before—_

_Before—_

_The memory eluded him._

_He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip those blue eyes out of Jonah Magnus’ skull._

_The cold reached for him. It always did, because even as he hid himself in memory, he would always be drawn back, the Lonely would find him and have him, and could only do so because he was always, always_ **_watched—_**

A hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him away, and suddenly Martin was stumbling back into a warm body. 

And the door to Elias’ office was open, the golden figure in the doorway, their hand—Barnabas’ hand—slowly drawing back, fingers curling into the palm, shaken from a daydream of someone who no longer existed. Martin was sure, now, that the figure was Barnabas. 

Jon’s hands shifted from where they were braced under Martin’s elbows, and Martin turned into him to get his feet back from underneath him. “Alright?” Jon asked, eyes wide.

Martin nodded distantly, though he could feel himself shaking, remnants of that pain and anger and sorrow making his chest feel tight. “Fine,” he whispered.

“No, you’re not,” Jon said, his eyes raking over him, “what happened, was it the Lonely?”

“I’m...” Martin swallowed dryly, taking a breath around the storm of emotions in his chest. “He’s so angry,” he whispered.

Jon’s eyes narrowed as he studied Martin’s face. “The figure?” he asked, looking up at where Barnabas stood in the doorway. Martin felt him, abruptly, go stiff. “Oh my god,” Jon croaked.

Martin’s grip tightened on his arm as he whirled around to look. “Oh,” he breathed, after a moment, his eyes wide.

Barnabas had moved from the doorway, further inside, and with the view unobscured, they could see a desk inside the room, facing the door. And, what must have been a portrait, hanging on the wall just behind. But Martin hadn’t even recognized it as such, at first. The space on the wall writhed and twitched, a mass of movement. Covered over with hundreds of spiders.

“Whose is that?” Martin asked shakily.

Jon didn’t respond, his grip rigid, his eyes wide as saucers. 

“Jon,” Martin hissed, trying to catch his eye, “whose portrait is that—“

“Elias’,” Jon answered, his voice thin. He glanced at Martin, then back into the room that waited for them. “It’s Elias’.”

“Elias,” Martin repeated, brow furrowing, “what...what could he have to do with it?” Martin took a step forward, toward the room, almost without thinking. 

Jon’s hand wrapped around his arm. “Martin, wait—“

“You don’t have to come in with me, Jon,” Martin told him, placating. 

“No,” Jon said immediately, “No, I...of course I’m going with you. I just...” his voice trailed off, as he looked between the open office and Martin. “I’m worried,” he finally said, “what the Web will ask of you.”

Martin nodded, and swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat, moving to gently take Jon’s hands in his. “I know,” he said softly. “I am too,” he admitted. “But...whatever it will be, it will be worth it.”

“Martin,” Jon breathed, his eyes roaming over his face. 

Martin stared back at him, the words he wanted to say catching his throat. “Let’s go,” he said instead.

He supposed he should have known something would go wrong. Martin crossed the threshold first. Perhaps he should have waited, let Jon go first—but, of course, Jon never would have gone first, he still eyed the spiders like he loathed even being near them. So Martin went first, Jon’s hand in his, but as soon as he took a step inside, something wrenched Jon’s hand from his.

Martin whirled around just in time to see Jon, pulled back and away from the door by golden strings he couldn’t see, a cry escaping him just as something—a familiar tug at his chest, once gentle, now almost painfully strong—pulled him back away from the door just as it slammed shut. 

“Jon!” he shouted, lurching back toward the door, reaching it just as Jon banged on it from the other side.

“Martin?!” 

Martin grabbed the doorknob, but it refused to turn. Still, he struggled with it, yanking, throwing his weight back to try to force it back open, and yet, nothing. 

He whipped his head around, glaring at Barnabas, who was staring back at him. “Open the door,” he said, trying to keep the fear from creeping into his voice. 

_“You should not have brought him.”_

“ _Open_ the door,” Martin grit out. 

_“The Archivist will not have my statement,”_ Barnabas said, emotion shaking in his almost-human voice, like the quivering of a thread. _“The Eye has gorged itself for long enough.”_

Martin’s breath caught in his throat, at the fury in the words, clear and ominous. A threat. 

“Jon,” he asked through the door, keeping his eyes on Barnabas, “Jon, are you alright?”

“I—I’m fine, a-are you?” he heard, very faint through the thick door. 

“I’m fine,” Martin answered. Then, shakily, “I can’t get the door open.”

Jon swore behind the door. “Okay, okay, I’ll—I’ll get Tim, a-and Basira, we—we can knock it down—“

 _“They won’t,”_ Barnabas said. _“It will take too long. They’ll die before they succeed.”_

“No!” Martin told Jon, when he heard the sounds of receding footsteps. “Don’t, just—“ his mind raced, thinking of every worst case scenario, the Stranger storming in while he was stuck in there, “just stay,” he gasped. “Just—I’ll figure something out, just stay here. Please.”

“Martin—“

“I’ll be okay,” he said. Then, looking up at Barnabas, he grit out, “okay? It’s just you and me in here. _What_ do you _want?”_

Barnabas tilted his head, and turned, tracing a hand over the desk, brushing a hand over the mass of spiders on the wall. The spiders parted for his touch, revealing the portrait underneath. A ruined canvas, remnants of a cruel mouth and an imperious nose. The parts of the canvas where the eyes would have been were nothing but loose fiber, like cobwebs. 

_Insects got to it,_ Sasha had said, about that portrait of Jonah Magnus. 

Or spiders.

Barnabas trailed past, a golden hand hovering over a machine in the corner of the room. A phonograph. Barnabas slowly crouched down, and Martin’s eyes drifted to look at the floorboards just under the phonograph, where more spiders congregated, crawling and shifting over one of the floorboards in particular. 

Barnabas brought his hand over it, and the spiders parted for him once again. His fingers brushed over the floorboard like a caress. He looked up at Martin, and Martin could almost make out the outline of his eyes, narrowed just slightly. _“I want to remember,”_ Barnabas said. 

Martin drew his eyes away from the floorboard, staring at him. “What’s under there?”

 _“Open it,”_ Barnabas said. 

“Martin?” Jon called through the door. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Martin called back, ignoring the way his hands shook. He got shakily to his feet, and took a step toward the phonograph. Then another, and another. 

His hands shook as he traced the edges of the floorboard, spiders scuttling out of his way like they had for Barnabas. He found a looser spot near the right corner, and dug in, prying it up. 

Inside was a skull. 

He must have made a noise, some kind of cry as he yanked his hand away, because Jon started banging on the door again. “Martin! Martin, what’s going on—”

“I’m fine!” he managed to croak out, “I-I’m fine, there’s just...there’s p-part of a, um, a skeleton in here.”

There was a brief silence, and then he heard Jon say, “that’s...not possible, we—we dumped Elias’ body in the tunnels...”

Martin frowned, staring down at the skull, some hazy realization brewing at the back of his mind. He looked up at Barnabas, who was staring down at the contents in the floor, hands balled into fists, trembling. 

Oh, he thought. Oh.

His heart pounded with the realization, even more so when he realized the skull wasn’t the only thing in there. No, there was also a bundle of papers, and a singular, large wax cylinder. Martin reached inside shakily, and distantly thought he could hear Jon saying something else, but he couldn’t make it out beyond the roaring in his ears. 

He unfolded the papers shakily, his eyes skirting over the writing on the page.

 _My dear Jonah,_ it read. _You must help me. If anyone is still here, it is you._

Martin read, his heart sinking, his hands shaking. Oh, he thought. Oh, oh—

_Please, Jonah. If you have any compassion within your heart, you will not leave me in this place._

_Your love,_

_Barnabas._

_“Play it,”_ Barnabas said. His voice trembled, like vibrations on a string, not-quite human.

Martin looked up at him, blinking around the tears that had sprung to his eyes, paper crinkling in his trembling grip. Martin was beginning to realize just what had happened to him. “I’m sor—”

 _“Play it,”_ Barnabas said again, sharper this time.

Martin swallowed, looking back down and reaching into the floor, drawing out the wax cylinder. He could almost feel Barnabas’ eyes watching him, as he went through the familiar motions of starting the phonograph. Distantly, he heard Jon shouting something, and called out a shaky reassurance. 

The phonograph clicked on. The wax recording began to turn. A sound of low static filled the silence. 

Then, “ _Hello Barnabas,”_ Jonah Magnus said, through the phonograph. Martin watched as Barnabas went stiff and still, his eyes locked on the spinning wax cylinder. 

_“I received your letter,”_ Magnus continued. _“I did tell you not to go see Mordecai, but, of course, you did. You did, as I thought you might after all. You were always so determined not to do what you were told, weren’t you?”_

A sigh. _“I know you can hear me, Barnabas,”_ Magnus said, _“and, it’s only because you’re here, aren’t you? In this very room, with me. Only, not quite. We’re not quite in the same place, really. You are_ there, _and I’m here, but we’re both in my office, aren’t we? It’s only, you’re in a particularly lonely version of it. But you can still hear this, can’t you? The echo of my voice, as I record this.”_ A huff of breath, almost a laugh, sounded through the recording. _“No, darling, I’m not in there,”_ Magnus said, what was almost a curl of _amusement_ in his tone, as he watched his version of Barnabas, trapped in the Lonely. Martin felt sick. _“No, not there either. I’m sorry, Barnabas, but...you won’t find me there.”_ A pause. _“I’m sorry,”_ he said again, as if he was in any way repentant, “ _I can’t hear you, darling. I can just_ see _you._

 _“The Lonely is such a fascinating place, isn’t it? How does it feel, I wonder? What is it like? To be so consumed, you feel whole?”_ A sigh. _“It’s a shame I can’t hear you. That wasn’t part of the arrangement I’m afraid.”_

Martin heard Barnabas make a sound, a sound like the breath had all left his lungs—if he’d had any lungs—and watched him press a trembling hand over his chest.

 _“You’re surprised. Yes, I’m sure you are. I’m sure you’re very confused, that’s quite understandable. I’ll help to fill in the gaps, I suppose. So you understand, completely, what’s happened to you and why. It would cost me nothing. You’ll forget soon, anyway.”_ Magnus paused for only a moment, but Martin felt almost like there was a kind of glee in it, a repellent desire to draw out as much fear as he possibly could. 

_“I would say it began with Wiltshire, but that wouldn’t be quite true. No, there was something I was considering even before the trip. Thinking of Rayner was what really spurred the thought, I’ll admit. Why is it, I wondered, that some, like Maxwell Rayner, are so favored by their patrons? We all serve our masters, I thought, so why did some of us so...excel like Raynor, where others didn’t? I had some theories, but it was, at that time, more of a thought exercise than any real question. But then...Mordecai. Mordecai was particularly powerful, you see, particularly entwined with the Lonely. We had a rather illuminating conversation on the train._

_“I asked after it, you see. Asked how, exactly, he became_ so _powerful. And he said he just...understood what our patrons favor. A sacrifice, a true act of devotion. Something like that would be rewarded highly. And...as I asked him about the Lonely, an idea began to form. You see, Barnabas, those in the Lonely...they don’t_ die. _Not in the sense that normal living things die, no. They_ fade. _They forget themselves and everything else, piece by piece, until there is nothing left of them. When you are alone, and you forget even yourself, nothing remains. And this brought something to mind. An idea. What if, I posited, they_ felt _as though they weren’t alone, even if they_ were? _If they were constantly kept, pinned, by the idea that there was surely someone there,_ watching? 

_“They fade, you see, only if they resign themselves to their solitude. If they do not fade, the Lonely continues to feed. On and on and on. Infinite. Do you think, I asked Mordecai, your patron would like that? I wonder, Barnabas, if the hunger I saw in his face was mirrored in mine. Perhaps it was.”_

A pause. Barnabas trembled, and Martin watched, and as he did, he was sure every moment that Barnabas looked clearer, less blown out, the edges of him sharpening, the broken expression on his face coming into focus.

 _“I was still thinking on it when I returned here, where you waited. You always waited for me, Barnabas,”_ Magnus said, almost...soft. _“I couldn’t seem to forget what Mordecai had said. A true act of devotion. And, I realized, the only other thing I was truly devoted to was you.”_

Another pause. Barnabas was trembling violently, his expression clear, twisted in grief and disbelief and _hate._

 _“So,”_ Magnus said, his voice deceptively soft, _“I think you understand, now. What I decided to do. It was...too great an opportunity to pass over, you understand. A feast of fear, for the Eye and the Lonely both. All Mordecai had to do was let the Eye peek through the fog. I admit...your ties to the Mother caught me by surprise. I almost reconsidered my plans. But it was so...new to you. You were still so afraid of it. What damage could you do,”_ Magnus said softly, _“from in there?”_

Barnabas was crying. Martin could see clear tears on his cheeks, a smattering of freckles on his nose, long fingered hands bunched at the front of his shirt, thin, not nearly enough to keep out the chill. It was like watching a sculptor form a statue out of gold, from a faceless creature into a perfect replica of a living thing, so lifelike it could have breathed. 

As it was, Barnabas’ chest heaved with awful, silent sobs.

 _“I want you to know,”_ Magnus’ awful, soft voice said on the recording, _“that I did love you, Barnabas. But I had the strength to love my patron more.”_

The recording clicked to a stop. 

There was the briefest moment of silence. Then, Barnabas doubled over and screamed, a sound so full of anguish it didn’t even sound human, though his voice rang as clear as it had ever been. Eyes flashed on his face, four more on his forehead and cheeks, glowing gold and slitted. His fury pulsed through every strand of the Web, reverberating, a fury that had always been there, but now Martin could hear it so clearly, so clearly it _hurt._

Martin winced, clapping his hands over his ears but it did nothing to help. 

Something shattered somewhere in the estate, the sound of breaking glass ringing in his ears. The doorframe to Elias’ office cracked and warped. 

“Martin!” he heard, above the noise, above the pain, more clearly than he had. 

He glanced at the door, squinting through the pain, and saw that with the doorframe warped, Jon had managed to push the door open. Martin ran to him without a thought, reaching out, stumbling through the doorway and into his arms. 

When he glanced back into the room, he saw Barnabas’ face and his expression, clear as day. All six eyes on his face were narrowed, fury and hate clear on his face. And he wasn’t looking at Martin.

He was looking at Jon.

Martin’s grip tightened on Jon’s arms, his breath catching in his throat. “We have to go,” he breathed, pulling Jon away from the door.

“Are you—?”

“Now,” he said, meeting Jon’s eyes. “We have to get away from this room.” There must have been some clear panic on his face because Jon moved with him immediately. 

Martin raced with him down the hall, his breaths coming too fast, his mind spinning. He pulled open one of the rooms down the hall, thinking he had to hide Jon away somehow, but also afraid that wouldn’t work at all—how could you run from something like Barnabas, who could appear where he pleased, when he pleased?

Still, they entered the room, and when Martin closed the door behind him he felt, marginally, better. There was an illusion of safety, at least. 

And he was away from the horrible, torrid emotion from that room. Could no longer hear that awful scream. 

Martin tried to breathe around the sudden emotion that clogged in his throat, the awful realization that Jonah had loved him and just _left him there._

He nearly startled when Jon reached out and brushed his cheek, wiping away a tear. Martin hadn’t realized he’d been crying. 

“I heard parts of the recording,” Jon murmured, “through the door.” 

Martin nodded, sniffing. “It said Jonah Magnus was _watching him_ in the Lonely. That that was what helped keep him there.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, his head shaking. “That doesn’t make sense. Jonah Magnus died over a hundred years ago.”

Martin frowned, his mind racing. Then, what—

“It said the Eye,” Jon murmured, “didn’t it? The Eye peeked through the fog.”

“Oh,” Martin breathed. “Oh, you’re right.”

The Eye had kept Barnabus in the Lonely. But only _because_ of Jonah Magnus.

He thought of Jonah Magnus, of his portrait, with his once-painted eyes torn to shreds. He thought back to when Sasha had shown him the portrait, when Sasha had mentioned, offhandedly, that they’d been aging poorly, fraying with holes. The insects getting to them. 

Or the spiders.

 _Recently, though, it got worse,_ she’d said. 

_How recently?_ Martin had asked.

_Last three years or so._

Three years ago, Jon had read from the Web’s book, and released the Stranger into the world.

And, doing so, had severely weakened the Eye. 

Martin thought about how much clearer Barnabas looked, after Jon had exerted so much of the Eye’s power looking for him. 

He thought about the first thing Barnabas had ever said to him. _Do not trust the Eye._

He thought of portraits with torn away eyes. Of how he was sure, suddenly, that Melanie had told him that when she’d left Elias Bouchard to die, he had been glaring daggers into her. And that, when the others found him, his eyes sockets crawled with spiders instead. 

“Jon,” Martin breathed, “what color were Elias Bouchard’s eyes?”

Jon stared at him. “What?”

“Were they blue?” Martin asked, staring back at him, feeling manic, feeling just on the cusp of _exactly_ what he needed to know. 

Jon stared at him just a moment longer, drawing back, and something in his tone told Martin he was beginning to understand. “Yes.”

“Jon, I-I need you to think on this very carefully. Did it look like they’d been _taken out?”_

“No,” Jon answered shakily, “no it—” His voice cut out.

“What?” Martin asked.

Jon audibly swallowed. “It looked like the spiders had _eaten_ them.”

Martin breathed out a shaky breath, feeling lightheaded, feeling the enormous weight of a frightening realization. 

_Watcher must be seen,_ the book read. 

Martin thought about how Barnabas was part of the Web. How Jonah had so utterly and irrevocably betrayed him. 

_I’d be careful, spitting on a gift from the weavers,_ Annabelle Cane had told Jon, once. _It never ends well._

“Jon,” Martin whispered, closing his eyes, “I don’t...I don’t think this was ever about _you.”_

There was a tense silence. “How can you ‘see’ a watcher we had no idea was involved in this?” Jon asked, helplessly. “One who—who’s long dead—”

A crash sounded from somewhere inside the house, and at the same time Jon crumpled with a whimper that had any shred of Martin’s calm leaving him. Martin’s arms shot out to catch him, lowering them slowly to the floor, all as he babbled, “Jon? Jon? What—what’s wrong?”

Jon pressed a hand to his face, his eyes narrowed, and it came away bloody, trembling. 

“Jon?” Martin gasped out, his hands hovering uselessly—useless, so _useless—_

“They’re inside,” Jon breathed. 

The silence in which Martin stared, horrified, was broken by a shrill voice that echoed through the estate. It no longer sounded completely human, strained by an anger that chilled his blood. 

“Joooooon!” Nikola’s voice called, so loud it boomed through the walls. “You’ve kept us waiting, you naughty boy!” Then, harder, like flint against stone, “your time is up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* psssst, this fic is called the unknown watcher for a reason ;) much like the rhyme in the book, it can have more than one meaning
> 
> Shout out to driflew who pretty much called that I might pull something like this lol. Though, remember guys, the Web EXCELS in multiple meanings...maybe “Watcher must be seen” means a few things......
> 
> Uh ohhhh what’s gonna happen??? Is Jon gonna DIE???
> 
> (For those of you who listened to the most recent episode and are feeling the blues tho, I will assure you, happy ending planned)


	26. Remember me when I am gone away

_“I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me.”_

—Charlotte Brontë, _Jane Eyre_

* * *

Martin felt as though he’d forgotten how to breathe. Above the frantic thump of his heart, he could hear distant sounds of destruction from downstairs, a cackling call of someone that sounded like Sasha but he knew, _knew,_ was not, and pounding footsteps that were too heavy to come from anything human. “Okay,” he breathed, trying to keep his voice from shaking. He turned to Jon, his hands settling on his shoulders. “Jon, we need to—Jon, love, hey,” he said, increasingly frantic, when he realized how long it was taking for Jon’s eyes to settle on him. He found Jon’s hand, squeezing it in his, and felt it was trembling. “What is it? What’s wrong, what can I...?”

“I don’t...mmh,” Jon squinted, making a pained sound and closing his eyes for a moment, his head lolling onto Martin’s shoulder. “Sorry...”

“It’s—you don’t have to be sorry,” Martin told him, choked, his hand automatically moving to cradle his head, his fingers pressing into the fabric of the hood, “just—what’s happening?” _What can I do, what can I do, what can I do—_

“Isn’t it obvious?” a new, delighted voice sounded, from inside the room. 

Martin jerked, his heart lurching up to his throat, his arms tightening around Jon. Helen grinned at them from her lounge against the wall, her yellow door just behind. She looked very tall, from their standpoint on the floor. “The Stranger has _finally_ breached the last stronghold of the Eye,” she continued. “Unknown agents in the last place where knowledge is meant to triumph...” Her grin widened, looking over where Jon was lying crumpled against the door. “Can’t imagine it’s a pleasant experience.” Her eyes flashed to look at Martin. “Shouldn’t be long now, darling.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jon muttered, his head turning slightly against Martin’s shoulder.

Helen cackled. “What, not happy to see me, Jon?”

“I’ve never been happy to see you,” Jon mumbled, his words slurring a bit.

Martin shifted, pressing Jon closer, trying to get his attention without looking away from Helen. “Jon? Jon, how are you feeling?” he asked, forcing his voice to come out calm, though he felt anything but. They couldn’t stay in there--there wasn’t even a lock on the door. They had to get back to the others, get somewhere more fortified. 

“‘M dizzy,” Jon admitted, his voice barely audible. “Hard to focus.”

Martin breathed out sharply, fighting the anxious fear that threatened to take him over. It spoke to how Jon must have been feeling, that he didn’t try to brush it off and insist he was fine. “Okay,” he said, “that’s okay, just...take a few, okay? We can’t stay here, but you can take a few minutes.”

Helen sighed, resting her chin on her interlocked fingers, looking down at them. “How _touching—_ ”

“Shut up,” Martin growled, glaring up at her.

Her smile only widened. “Martin,” she said, scolding, “you really should be pleased.”

“ _Why,”_ Martin shot back, disgusted at her glee, “would I be _pleased?”_

At this, her smile went soft, closed mouthed and almost conspiratory with the gleam in her eye, but she didn’t answer. Instead, her eyes flitted to Jon again. “It’s remarkable really,” she murmured, “what the Web’s managed to orchestrate. I’ve never seen anything like it. Tell me Martin,” she asked, her voice sickly sweet like honey as she looked over at him, “have you ever seen a god die?”

Martin stared up at her, shocked into silence. “What?” he breathed.

A footstep, heavy, followed by another, louder, drawing closer, had him cutting off, every inch of him tense like a live wire. Jon stilled in his arms. The footsteps had sounded very close, almost just beyond the door. 

Martin looked up to see Helen’s eyes locked on the door, a slow smile beginning to stretch her face. 

“Helen,” Martin whispered, frantic, “you—you could make us a door, let us through to another part of the estate.”

“I could, yes,” Helen confirmed, her voice at its normal piercing volume.

Martin winced at the sound, waiting a tense breath for any sounds from the hall behind the door, but didn’t hear anything. Perhaps the only good thing Jonah Magnus had done, Martin thought viciously, was invest in _very_ thick walls. 

“Please,” he asked her, “please, would you let us use your doorways? I-I promise, you—you can feed on me all you want, just—please.”

“Hmm.” Helen looked at them, chin propped up on her hand. “No.”

Martin’s breath left him in a rush. “Helen—”

“Nope,” Helen said again, popping the p. “I’m not going to.”

Martin stared up at her, helpless and growing more so with every second that passed. They didn’t have time for this. They would be cornered if found in here. He set his jaw, glaring, and embraced the buzz of power that welled in his throat. “ **Let us—** ” 

He wasn’t able to finish the demand. The words died in his throat when Jon gave a hoarse scream and was abruptly ripped away from him. Martin reached out for him instinctively, calling out his name, but Jon was dragged out of his reach from Helen’s grip on his shoulder. Or, no. Not _on_ his shoulder, Martin realized, horrified, but _through it—_ her finger curling through it like a fishhook and pulling him close as his feet scrabbled against the floor. 

“Oh, Martin,” Helen said, nonplussed, as if Jon wasn’t struggling in her grip, making pained noises every time he shifted and the jagged finger in his shoulder moved. “I told you not to do that.”

“Let him go,” Martin breathed, his voice shaking. He stared at Jon, the way he was grabbing at Helen’s hand trying to take the weight off his shoulder, the way his hands shook and he looked like he could barely keep upright, trying and failing to keep from leaning into Helen with the painful angle at which she held him. “Please, Helen—”

“Mm, it’s not going to be that easy, darling,” Helen crooned. 

“Let me go,” Jon gasped out, his voice tight with pain, his hands wrapped tight enough around Helen’s wrist that Martin could see the whites of his knuckles. “You can’t—”

“I can,” Helen said, grin frighteningly wide as she looked down at him. “The Eye can’t help you now, Jon. _Now_ I can _hurt you._ ” As if to emphasize her point, she let her hand twist, and then ripped her finger back out. Jon crumpled to the floor with a whimper, hardly moving save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. 

Martin raced to his side, tearing off his sweater to press it to the sluggishly bleeding wound, taking Jon’s shaking hand with his free one. “You’re okay,” he was murmuring, mindlessly, as he blinked away tears, “it’s okay. You’re okay.” He looked at Jon, wishing it didn’t feel like he was fading further away with how long it took for him to focus on Martin’s face, his blinks slow and tired. 

Helen crouched, her face level with Martin’s, but he refused to tear his gaze away from Jon, watching her only in his periphery. “You want me to open a door, Martin?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous. “Fine.”

The room distorted and warped around him in his periphery, dizzying, maddening. And then Helen was looking at them from next to the door to the hall, her hand wrapped around the doorknob. All the breath left Martin’s lungs in a rush.

“Wait—”

“Here’s your door,” she said, and pulled the door open, letting it creak loudly on its hinges.

Martin didn’t see her leave. She must have, he heard the sound of her own door opening and closing, and no longer saw her in his periphery, but his horrified stare was stuck on the now open doorway, and the hulking body that had stepped into it almost as soon as the door had creaked open.

It was one of the men from the theater—Breekon, he thought, though he wasn’t sure, couldn’t really tell them apart. Martin could see what looked like a gaping hole in the clothes he wore just above his sternum that could have come from a gunshot. The skin underneath was smooth, unmarked, and didn’t look quite like skin. Breekon was staring at them, dull eyes glinting, mouth curling. “Finally,” Martin heard him say, in his rough accent, taking a step into the room. 

Martin couldn’t think around the horror, remembering the awful, brute strength of an arm around his throat. He wanted to force himself into action, but he felt locked in place as Breekon took another step toward them. Jon struggled to sit up under his hand, his fingers curling in the fabric of Martin’s shirt trying to get him to move back, his voice rasping his name, but Martin could only stare what must have been his looming death in the face, his breath short and thin in his lungs. 

Breekon was reaching out a hand, eyes dull like a shark’s, smile wrong, too many teeth—

But then there was movement behind the man, and Breekon’s head jerked oddly and then his body, and he crashed into the ground.

When he fell, Martin saw Tim standing behind, a shovel held in his hands as if it were a baseball bat just swung. 

“Tim?” Jon gasped out, incredulous. Martin, feeling as though he’d just been doused in cold water for all the shock he felt at the sight, echoed the same. 

Jon’s hand found Martin's shoulder, settling there to steady himself as he sat up, and Martin placed his hand over it, and the other at Jon’s back, making sure he didn’t waver. That awful fear that had taken a hold of him was dissipating. “Tim, you—”

Martin jerked back when Breekon moved, a twisted hand braced against the floor. His arms tightened around Jon. “Tim,” he gasped.

“Hold on,” Tim grunted, digging in the bag he’d brought with him, strapped over one shoulder. He made a pleased sound and pulled out a spray can of old pesticide Martin remembered from the greenhouse, and a lighter. Tim leaned down where Breekon was attempting to stand, giving him a toothy grin. “Yippee ki yay, motherfucker,” he said, almost conversationally, and promptly held the lighter before the can and sprayed a stream of fire into Breekon’s face. 

Breekon screamed in a way that echoed, not quite human, hands scrabbling at his face and melting away.

“Time to go!” Tim told them, struggling to pick the shovel back up.

“Jon,” Martin gasped, turning to him, “can you...?”

Jon nodded, his hand pressing more firmly against the sweater bunched up at his shoulder in preparation. With Martin’s help he was able to get to his feet, only swaying a little bit. He leaned heavily on Martin, and Martin happily took his weight if it meant it would help him in any way. His arm wound around Jon, and much as it was for his benefit, Martin couldn’t help but take comfort in the feeling of his chest rising and falling with each breath. 

They followed Tim, quickly skirting around Breekon’s twitching body, into the hall. “You two took your time then,” Tim said, striding quickly, but cautiously down the hall, looking back every so often to make sure they followed.

“The ghost got a little techy,” Jon muttered.

“So we agree it’s a ghost then?” Tim shot back, with a quirk of a grin. “What’d it want?”

The answer that bubbled up inside Martin was not quite his own, warm and buzzing in his throat. “Retribution,” he said.

Tim glanced back and gave him a strange look, and he could feel Jon tilt his head to look at him, but Martin barely noticed it, caught on that word. 

_You’re going to right the wrong,_ Helen had told him, once, _and wipe away the debt._

But...if this truly was all about Barnabas and Jonah and the Eye, and what had happened years ago...how was _he_ supposed to right the wrong?

Helen always seemed to know something he didn’t. Always seemed to have some bit of information she kept to herself, as a private little joke. He scoured his thoughts, trying to remember every little jab he didn’t understand, every incomprehensible little comment she’d made to him.

_I think we want the same thing, Martin. Or, we will. Syntax is so limiting._

_Some people get a hundred years, and they don’t even know it._

_Play the game. Make a move._

He followed Tim without paying much attention, most of his physical effort caught up in keeping Jon upright as he leaned more and more heavily into him. He startled to a stop though, when he saw Barnabas, glowing gold, exiting a room just beyond the doors of the Archive. 

Martin caught a flash of what was about to happen, a moment before it did. “Tim, get away from that door!” he shouted.

Tim whirled around to look at him, as Jon’s grip tightened around him, but then the door that Barnabas had walked through burst open, and Tim stumbled back just out of reach of the thing that walked out.

Because it was a thing, Martin had to remind himself. But after so long spent in the domain of the Stranger, the NotThem looked almost like a human again, almost like what he could have sworn Sasha had looked like before. 

The NotThem looked at Tim, its face transforming into a bright, blinding smile. “Tim,” the NotThem said, “I found you.”

Tim’s white-knuckled grip on his shovel started to go slack. “Sasha?” he asked, voice trembling. 

“No! It’s the NotThem! Don’t listen to it, Tim,” Martin warned him. 

“Are you sure that’s not her?” Jon murmured. When Martin glanced at him, it didn’t look like his eyes were focusing on the scene in front of them, not quite settling on one thing. His grip had slackened on the sweater, sticky with blood. 

“Shit,” Martin hissed, reaching over and more firmly pressing Jon’s hand against it, “Jon, you—you have to keep pressure—”

“I missed you, love,” the NotThem said, in what sounded exactly like Sasha’s lovely cadence, taking a step closer. 

“Tim!” Martin shouted, when he made no move to back away, “Tim, that isn’t _her—”_

“What if you’re wrong?” Tim breathed, his voice trembling. “What if—”

“I’m not!” Martin told him helplessly, “Tim, don’t let it get any closer—”

He cut off at a sudden crashing sound from downstairs, looking over the bannister to see a figure climbing in through the window, covered in mud and splashes of red. Martin recognized the short, choppy black hair and the overalls immediately. “Melanie,” he breathed, barely audible, and then, louder, “Melanie!”

Her head jerked up to look at him, and his smile fell away. “Oh,” he breathed, his stomach twisting with some awful combination of horror and sorrow.

“Martin,” Jon rasped, voice thin, his hand tightening in the fabric of Martin’s shirt where his arm was wrapped around him. “Get away from the bannister.”

But Martin could only stare numbly down at her and her eyes, blown out with a red flashing in her pupils, so bright he could see it all the way from where he stood. He didn’t really register what she was doing, with her hand going to her side, but then Jon was saying, hoarsely, “Martin! Martin, get down!” and pulling him bodily to the floor.

There was a whistling sound, faint, over their heads, and then a sound of the NotThem shrieking and Tim crying out, and it was all too much, too much, too much—

When Martin looked up, there was a knife embedded in the wall behind them, and the NotThem was pulling another of Melanie's knives out of its shoulder and slashing it at Tim, who scrambled out of the way, but was clutching his side as if the NotThem had already managed to hurt him. 

Melanie was bounding up the stairs, taking them almost four at a time, and when she reached the landing, she bodily launched herself at the NotThem, sending them both to the ground. As much as Martin would have liked to believe some part of her was really in control and going for the NotThem first, he didn’t think that was why. He realized it was more likely that she wanted to lay into the first warm body she saw. 

He realized Jon was saying his name, and he struggled to hear him over the roaring in his ears, struggled to tear his eyes away from what had once been Melanie and what had once been Sasha trying to tear each other apart. 

“The Archive!” he thought Jon might have been saying, pulling at his arm, “we have to get to the Archive—”

“We have to bring her back,” Martin breathed, wincing when the NotThem landed a kick to Melanie’s midsection, sending her into the bannister. “Like before—I can—we have to—”

“We can’t,” Jon told him, putting a hand on his cheek, guiding Martin to look at him. His eyes were wide, his hand trembling. He looked afraid. “We can’t, the Eye isn’t strong enough to guide her back now. We have to get inside the Archive, Martin. _Now_.”

Martin looked up at Tim, banging on the doors to the Archive, yelling for Basira to open them, but couldn’t stop himself from looking back at Melanie and the golden string that still shone between them. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out for it, hoping against hope that maybe, somehow, he could still bring her back.

Instead, as soon as he touched it, he was overwhelmed with rage, rage, _rage, and before that, utter desperation to find him, find him, supposed to protect him, find him, find him by any means, any means,_ **_any_ ** _means—_

And then hands—Tim’s hands, far stronger than Jon’s, now—were pulling him away, and the connection severed, and Melanie’s eyes were still blown out with red and narrowed before she pulled the NotThem off balance, trying to get the knife in its hand, and sent them both tumbling backward, over the edge of the bannister and to the floor below. 

Martin stopped fighting Tim’s grip on him, then. It wasn’t like she was dead—he could hear her heavy breathing from the floor below and the NotThem’s shrieking fury, but he couldn’t shake the feeling like that had been his only chance. That now she was gone, and that last image of her, toppling over the railing, lost to her rage, would be all he’d ever have of her again. 

He would only have that, and the knowledge that she had accepted the Slaughter again in the hopes of finding him.

“Martin!” Tim shouted through the roaring in his ears, “Martin, you—listen!” he said, shaking Martin’s shoulder, drawing his gaze. “Look, Basira’s taking down the barricade from inside, should have the doors open in few, okay? Get Jon inside the moment the doors open, and don’t look back.”

“What?” Martin asked, blinking at him. He glanced at Jon, just behind him, leaning against the wall, looking faint, and then back at Tim. “Why are you saying that like you’re not—”

“You _are_ hard ones to find, aren’t you?” Nikola’s voice rang, and Martin looked over Tim’s shoulder to see them at the end of the hall, one of Nikola's legs trailing awkwardly, bent and broken, behind the other, slowing them down. Barnabas stood next to Nikola, with his six slitted eyes, just watching. 

_Why,_ Martin wanted to scream, then. _Why are you doing this?_

But he knew. It wasn’t about them. This was about the Eye.

Barnabas wanted to see a god die.

Martin watched, feeling a long way away from himself, as Tim crouched, rummaging in his bag, pulling out a bottle of alcohol and a rag, heart in his throat. “Tim—”

“She’ll need time to replace the barricade once you’re inside,” Tim said, tearing the rag and stuffing it inside the bottle. He stood, the lighter in his right and the shovel held underneath his arm. 

“Tim, please don’t,” Martin whispered, reaching out for him as if he could physically keep him in place, but Tim stepped out of his reach, a sad, rueful smile on his face. 

“I’m not letting Nikola have you again,” Tim said, as Martin’s heart cracked.

“Tim—”

“Both of you do me a favor, yeah?” Tim asked, flicking the lighter open. He lit the rag, and smiled. “Save the world for me, would you?”

And then he turned, throwing the bottle down the hall, striding toward Nikola’s shrieking, flaming form, hefting the shovel in his hands. 

Martin forced his eyes away, screwing them shut and banging on the door. “Basira!” He chanced a glance at Jon, then shot towards him, holding him up by his uninjured shoulder when it looked like his legs might give out. He could hear the NotThem laughing downstairs, and out of the corner of his eye saw Tim swing the shovel at a still flaming Nikola, and it was too much he needed it to stop, he didn’t know how to make it stop—

“ _Enough!”_ Nikola shrieked, something like a shockwave emanating with the word, the lights in the hall blowing out, the light of the fire smothering out. 

Martin pressed Jon against the door as the force of the power blew past, shielding him. When it passed, he looked back, heart in his throat. He saw when Nikola caught Tim’s shovel mid swing, snapping it with a twist of their grip, and their other hand shot towards him and grabbed him around the throat. At Nikola’s touch, the wood stretching up from his shoulder began to crawl up his face, muffling his screaming, covering over his features, making him faceless, stripping him away—

The door opened from behind them, Basira’s hand shooting out and grabbing him, pulling him and Jon inside in an ungraceful sprawl, and slamming the door shut. 

“Get away from the doors,” she said briskly, not looking at them, as she made to move one of the desks back into the makeshift barricade. She paused, glancing at him. “Tim’s not...?” She looked at him, at the expression on his face, and then nodded. “Right,” she said, still a moment longer, before she visibly shook herself, turning the table to press it back against the door. 

Jon groaned beside him, and Martin turned to him immediately. It gave him something to focus his energy on that wasn’t Melanie, lost to the Slaughter, or Tim, a faceless part of the Stranger. 

The sweater, bunched up at Jon's shoulder, was soaked through, and Jon wasn’t so much holding it there anymore but resting his hand over it. Martin gently placed his hand over Jon’s, letting his left trace gently around the fabric framing his face, drawing his attention. “Still with me?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Jon replied, his voice tightening at the end, when Martin peeked under the sweater to look at the wound. It was still sluggishly bleeding, and he wanted to curse, wanted to cry. 

“We need bandages for you,” he said instead. If he focused on what he could fix, instead of what he might lose, he would be okay.

“Recording room,” Jon rasped. “Stashed some away after the Prentiss incident.” 

“Someday you’re going to tell me what this Prentiss incident was all about,” Martin tried to say lightly, but he couldn’t quite keep the tremble out of his voice as he helped Jon sit up. 

Jon’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Maybe,” he panted, “after a drink. Wasn’t a very fun time.”

“Course it wasn’t. Ready?” Martin asked him, arm wound around him to help him up. 

Jon took a breath, and then nodded. He helped Jon rise to his feet, adjusting when Jon wobbled, wrapping Jon’s good arm around his shoulders. It was then, when they turned, that Martin saw what had become of the book at the center of the Archive. The glass case around it had shattered, shards scattered on the floor around the podium, and the book itself was seeping black ink, rivulets running down the wood of the podium, staining it dark. 

Martin baulked at it. “When did...?” 

“Happened whenever you and Jon took off,” Basira answered, brusquely, as she pushed another table up to the doors. “A few minutes before they got in, the glass just...exploded.”

Martin stared at her, then at the book, thinking of Barnabas screaming, the sound that was not quite a sound shattering something in the estate. 

Barnabas, he thought. It all came back to Barnabas. 

Jon wobbled at his side, leaning against him more heavily, shocking him out of his thoughts. “We’re going to the back room,” he told her. Basira nodded, but didn’t quite look at him, her focus single-minded. He wondered if that was how she banished her fear, devoting herself entirely to a single purpose, forgetting the rest. 

“Alright,” he told Jon, softly, “let’s go get that patched up.”

* * *

It wasn’t long after they had settled in the recording room that something began banging on the Archive doors. Voices drifted from behind it, from far away, that sounded like Tim and Melanie, but that he knew couldn’t have been either. The insulation of the recording room muffled the sounds, somewhat, and he was stupidly grateful for it. 

“Interesting room,” Martin murmured, as he wound a clean bandage around Jon’s shoulder. It wasn’t really. Just a desk and some equipment, with specially insulated walls, but he was desperate for some levity. Especially after he’d caught another glimpse of that golden thread between them, flickering like an old fluorescent bulb, there a second and then gone. Because he knew what it meant now, what it had always meant. That Jon was dying. Fading away, just like his mother had been, with every passing second. He swallowed around the sudden tightness of his throat, closing his eyes for a second, trying to banish the thought. “You’ve never let me in here before,” he commented weakly.

Jon huffed, glancing at him sideways with tired, half-lidded eyes. “As if it’s a question of _let._ I’ve never been able to stop you from satisfying your curiosity. Makes a great amount of sense, you’re being of the Web and the Eye.”

Martin smiled absently, but his motions slowed as he asked, genuinely, “is it really possible to be both?”

Jon almost shrugged, before Martin, with a hand on his good shoulder, reminded him that was a bad idea. Undeterred, Jon said, “I don’t see why not. It kept Sasha with us, at least during the day. And Melanie was a bit of both, for a while. Daisy’s still associated enough with the Eye that she’s still around.”

Martin waited until he was done winding the bandage before giving voice to what he’d been thinking for a very long time. “I suppose I’ve been a very poor avatar of the Eye,” he murmured, “if I still haven’t been able to see what I’m supposed to.”

Jon was quiet for a long time, but in the silence, he found Martin’s hand, and held it in his own. “I don’t see how you could have,” Jon said, “if Jonah Magnus is the watcher the Web spoke of. It sounds like the only person who ever really knew Magnus, exactly as he was, was Barnabas.”

Martin went still, his heart beating faster in his chest, his eyes snapping to Jon’s. 

“What?” Jon asked, seeing his expression.

_The only person who ever really knew Magnus was Barnabas._

His head was spinning, as he thought on everything he’d been through at the estate, every little thing the Web had led him to. 

Almost everything led to Barnabas.

His dreams. The wax recordings. 

_Doors will open for the one,_ the inscription on the book read. But _Martin_ wasn’t the only one opening doors, answering long dead questions. _Barnabas_ had helped lead him through Helen’s hallways. _Barnabas_ had helped him open Elias’ office. 

_You remind me of someone,_ Annabelle Cane had said to him, coyly. _Someone I’ve never met before._

_The Web is what has been. What is. What may be. All at once. Memory, and yet-to-be memory._

_Yet-to-be memory._

_Yet-to-be memory._

And what was Barnabas but memory?

Martin didn’t get the chance to voice any of it, as he stared back at Jon, realization making him feel cold and hot all at once. Because in the next moment, there was a crash, and the doors of the Archive were banging open. 

“Jon!” Nikola’s voice rang, distorted and wrong, “I am _losing_ my _patience!”_

A gunshot rang out, and then another, and another. Then quiet. 

Basira was out there, holding Nikola back alone. Martin stood, staring at the flimsy door between them and the rest of the Archive, itching with the need to do _something._ “Jon, stay here,” he said, taking a step to the door.

“What?” Jon hissed, grabbing his arm, “Martin, she’ll kill you—”

“My death won’t end the world,” he said, strangled, shaking Jon’s grip away. He was beginning to understand what he had to do. And he didn’t know if he’d come back from it. “Yours will.”

But Jon reached for him again, fingers closing around his wrist, eyes wide. “Don’t. I can’t—w-we’ll figure something out, we could still—”

“I’ve already figured it out,” Martin choked out, a humorless smile on his face. Jon went still, staring at him. Martin stared back, barely registering the strange, rhythmic sounds of destruction, or Nikola’s taunting, from beyond the door. All he could see was Jon. “I love you,” Martin breathed. Jon’s eyes widened, his fingers going slack around his wrist. “Try to help me remember that, would you?” Martin asked, his voice shaking. 

And then he was opening the door, ignoring Jon’s cry for him to wait. 

He should have known Jon would follow. He knew, really, that hiding Jon away in the last corner of the Archive couldn’t have done more than buy him a few minutes, but Martin had hoped he might—

Martin thought he’d be able to—

Well. 

It didn’t go as he thought he would. Because he realized what that strange rhythmic booming was the moment he exited the room. Nikola had knocked over one of the towering, sub-sectioning shelves of the Archive, and sent the rest of them toppling over onto each other, sending books and dust and files into the air. And the last of them was just there, next to the recording room. The Web allowed him a moment, a second, to see it before it happened, as Jon reached out for him. 

Martin turned, wrapping his arms around Jon and cradling his head, as the last shelf fell over them. Then, he was hit by something large and heavy, and there was nothing but black.

* * *

He came back to consciousness slowly, coming in and out. It was hard to breathe—something was pressing on his legs and the air was thick with something that scratched his throat, as he breathed mechanically, in, out, in, out. “Martin,” he thought he heard, a hushed, terrified voice. 

Hands cradled his face, gentle and trembling. “Martin?” he heard again, more desperate, “Martin, wake up—you have to wake up—”

“Jon!” came a higher pitched, distantly familiar voice that had a jolt of fear running down his spine, even as he wasn’t quite conscious enough to remember whose it was. “You can come out now, Archivist! Your other friends are turned! Maybe, if you’re very good and come out _right_ now, we’ll refrain from doing the same to your Martin. How does that sound?”

Martin fought his way back to consciousness, blinking open his eyes despite the swell of pain in his head, grimacing at the feeling. It was very dark—the lights must have blown—but he registered Jon’s wide eyes in the darkness, staring back at him. 

“Jon?” he croaked, coughing at the dryness of his throat.

Jon made a breathless sound, his hands brushing over Martin’s cheeks. “Oh, thank god, y-you’re okay, I thought–”

“Joooon!” came Nikola’s voice, again, their uneven footsteps heavy things, clomping around the Archive.

Jon stilled, and then said, very hushed, “we have to get out of here. Daisy might be able to buy us more time if she’s not..." He cut off for a moment, then continued, "we just have to leave. Can you–can you move?”

It took Martin a second to process the question, his thoughts sluggish with the dull pain at the side of his head. He studied their situation. They were lying in a small gap against the wall, where the shelf had caught on the wall just above their heads and hadn’t managed to flatten them completely. Dust and old files littered the floor around them. Jon seemed to have luckily landed in the safe little triangle between the shelf, the floor, and the wall, but Martin, more sprawled out, _taller,_ he thought ruefully, could feel a telling pressure against his right leg that hinted otherwise. 

Experimentally, Martin tried to move, but his leg didn’t move with him, his boot caught on some divot in the shelf, pinned against the floor. He grit his teeth, pulling until a twinge of pain sprain to his ankle, and only then stopping, his breath coming short. “No,” he rasped, “I can’t. I’m stuck.”

Jon stared at him for a moment, and Martin could practically feel the despair bleeding from him. “Okay,” he said, faintly, “okay–that’s. I can think of something, just–just let me—”

“Jon,” Martin interrupted softly. “You should try to slip out of here. I–I could distract them—”

“No,” Jon said immediately, sounding repulsed by the very idea. “I’m not leaving you. Besides,” he added, with a humorless huff, “it’s...it’s not like I can actually go anywhere.”

“Just buy yourself a little more time,” Martin told him, “while I...”

Jon's eyes narrowed as he studied his face. “While you what?” Jon asked, staring at him intently. “You said–you said you’d figured it out.”

“I think I have,” Martin answered, after a moment. “And I also...don’t know how it will go. For me.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “What do you—“

“You said the only person who ever really knew Jonah Magnus was Barnabas,” Martin told him. “The only person who’s ever really _seen_ him.” He swallowed dryly, letting his head rest back against the floor for a moment. “And Barnabas is just memory, Jon. Just...a _lot_ of memory, clinging onto the only reality he knows.” He took a shaky breath. "Memory can't subsist on its own. It needs a place to stay."

He could feel the moment Jon understood what he was saying. He heard his sharp intake of breath, and when Jon reached out for his hand, squeezing hard, Martin wrenched his eyes shut against the sudden, acute desire to cry. 

“Martin,” Jon breathed, but he said nothing else, his voice seemingly failing him.

Martin gave a broken huff of a laugh. “It makes a lot of sense, now that I think on it,” he said shakily. “The dreams were Barnabas’. I felt him, and then saw him, _all_ the time. The Web was constantly showing me his memories, trying to get me to take the hint.” A line of a poem he remembered hating in school drifted through his mind and he wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. “Remember me when I am gone away,” he breathed. 

“Stop that,” Jon hissed, his grip tightening on Martin’s hand, “you’re not—you’re not just going to _go away_ , you’re still going to be _you—_ ”

“I always get so lost in them,” Martin couldn’t help but say, terrified. “The memories. I don’t—I don’t know if I’ll—”

But then the shelf above them was creaking, and there was movement behind Jon, and something was reaching in—something that had a smoothed over, wooden face, but wore Basira’s clothing. 

The mannequin that used to be Basira grabbed Jon’s leg, and yanked him toward the opening. 

Jon’s hand slipped out of his grip. “No!” Martin shouted, reaching desperately, then futilely trying to push the shelf off him, “no—Jon!”

“Ah!” Nikola’s voice exclaimed, sounding very close, sounding triumphant. “ _There_ you are.”

The shelf shifted, dust swirling in the air, and then Nikola’s hand appeared around the edge of the shelf and the whole thing was bodily pulled off him, giving a great crash as it met the floor again just beyond them.

But Martin couldn’t take his eyes off Jon, struggling against the mannequin’s grip, crying out when the mannequin dug its fingers into his shoulder. 

Martin tried to scramble to his feet then, even as his head spun and throbbed with pain, but hands were grabbing at him from behind, pulling him down to his knees. Hard, unforgiving hands. He jerked, his head whipping around to see a wooden face, features smoothed over, but familiar—familiar cheekbones, familiar clothes. What used to be Tim.

Martin did let out a sob then, trying to twist out of the unforgiving grip. “Get off me! Let me go!” 

But the grip didn’t let up, and he could only watch as Nikola, slow with their uneven gait, advanced on Jon. They reached for him, fingers curling and grabbing at his hood, and then Nikola was pulling him, dragging him, choking him, and with Jon's hood pulled back Martin couldn’t even look properly because his head swam with pain. 

But he could see it through blurry, tear filled vision. Saw Nikola drag Jon to the center of the room, over the wreck Nikola had made of the Archive, his struggling hardly even slowing them down. Martin nearly managed to tear out of the mannequin’s grip, then, but the other one—the one that looked almost like Basira had—grabbed him from his left and held him there. 

“No!” he shouted, his voice breaking, “Nikola _stop!_ Please, stop—please, please don’t do this!”

Nikola didn’t even seem to hear him, focused entirely on dragging Jon to the base of the podium. Barnabas was there, Martin realized, standing just beyond the podium, looking down at them. 

Martin grit his teeth so hard he thought they might crack, glaring at him. “He hasn’t done anything to you!” he shouted at him. “He hasn’t done _anything,_ Barnabas, let him _live!”_

He thought he saw Barnabas’ eyes flicker at that, shift up for a moment to look at him, but he wasn’t sure.

Nikola shoved Jon against the podium and held him there by what must have been his throat, but Martin couldn’t even see him clearly without the hood over his head, pain blooming bright behind his eyes. Nikola raised what looked like a broken shard of glass.

“To a new world,” Nikola crooned, gleeful.

And Nikola brought the glass shard down, and plunged it into Jon’s chest.

Martin wasn’t sure what kind of sound he made. The shape of the grief that ripped out of him. But it tore at his throat and stung his eyes and squeezed at his lungs until there was no breath left in them. 

The grips on his arms slackened and he tore away from them immediately, stumbling over debris, his eyes swimming with what might have been tears or blood as he approached Jon. 

He barely registered the way the book shuddered, pages curling, or the way the air above the book seemed to darken, in preparation. He just had to get to Jon.

“Now, now,” he heard Nikola say, through the roaring in his ears. Their hand fell heavy on his shoulder. “Where do you think—”

The words buzzed from his throat, raw with his grief, with his fury. “ ** _Don’t touch me._ ** ” Martin brushed past them, as their hand was supernaturally pulled away, ignoring their spluttering. “ ** _Stay away from us._** ”

After that, his attention was on Jon, and Jon alone. He fell to his knees at Jon’s side, his trembling, useless hands trying to stem the flood of blood at his chest. Martin wanted to cradle Jon's face in his hands, but he couldn’t even look at him.

Jon’s breaths rasped, pained, gurgling things. It sounded like it was a struggle for him to breathe, let alone speak. But one of his trembling hands still reached over and covered Martin’s where it lay on his chest.

Martin stared at the bloody collar of Jon's shirt through his blurry, tear-filled vision. It was as far up as he could clearly look. A sob escaped him. “Don’t leave,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Please don’t leave me.”

Jon’s breath hitched. His fingers pressed a little tighter over Martin’s, his thumb brushing gently, like a comfort, like a promise. 

_This isn’t right_ , Martin thought, with sudden devastating clarity, through the grief that clawed at his chest. His vision, at the edges, blurred gold, like a confirmation. _This isn’t how it’s going to end._

It wasn't a realization, he realized. It was a decision.

He refused to let this course of action go any further. Weaver, everyone called him. Fine. He would weave his own path then. No longer following, blind. He would take things into his own hands. 

Martin looked up to see Barnabas, staring down at them with what almost looked like a stricken expression, more human than he’d looked for a long time. “You can help me end this,” Martin said.

Barnabas stared at him, for a moment, the expression on his face was conflicted. He trembled at the edges, like a candle being gently blown. “ _The Web has promised me retribution—”_

“Your retribution,” Martin told him, “will end the world.”

Barnabas glanced away. _“My world has already ended.”_

“So you’ll doom it for everyone else as well?” Martin glared at him, his voice cold. “What have you become," he said, "that you should want that?”

Barnabas actually flinched at that, eyes flickering. _“The Web has promised me retribution,”_ he said again, as if trying to convince himself. 

“Is that what you really want?” Martin asked pointedly, drawing his gaze. “Or do you just want to be whole again?”

Barnabas stared down at him, eyes wide, trembling at the edges. He was silent for a long breath. _“I don’t want to be forgotten,”_ he finally said, like a confession. 

Martin leveled his eyes on the golden string between them. “You won’t be,” he said. And he reached for the string, and grabbed it, pulling it toward him.

And he wove it into himself. 

Distantly, he could hear Nikola shrieking, screaming that this wasn’t right, that the Web had chosen them. Distantly, he felt Jon’s hand in his tighten its grip, and his breathing quicken. 

But it was all very, very distant. 

It was a curious thing, to experience a whole life in a matter of moments. He saw the moment Barnabas Bennett met Jonah Magnus, locking eyes across the room at some otherwise dreary gathering. Saw the stolen moments in between, the cautious rendezvous and then, when Jonah had established himself enough, the purposeful visits to his estate under the guise of friendly ones. He saw that Jonah did love him, in the beginning, though he was a bit too cold and a bit too proud to show it all at once, he saw it in his eyes, in the gentle warmth of his touches, in the distinct fondness of his voice. And he saw the moment Jonah’s attention began to fade from him, and turn to something other, something unknowable and ancient and colder than Jonah had ever been. He saw it all, now, how Jonah had been slowly taken from him, piece by piece, that curious nature that he’d always adored twisted and warped and turned against him. He didn’t realize until after, of course, after Jonah and his _patron_ had fed him to the cold grip of Forsaken, and he had reached out, desperate for help, only to hear his beloved’s voice, unlike he’d ever known it. Cold. Clinical. Inhuman. 

But Jonah hadn’t realized the extent of Barnabas’ own inhumanity. There were no golden hints of the Web in the Lonely, none could reach there, but there _was_ that hint of gold that thrummed in his own veins. He could feel it, in the quiet, when the only thing to focus on was the rush of his own blood under his skin. He was _made_ of it, he realized. Memory strung together, that’s all he was, all anyone ever was. And so he held to it, clung to himself like a spider to a web, as the Lonely tried to tear parts of him away. 

The fury was the easiest to hold onto, the easiest to keep hot and bright and thrumming. He was so very full of it. 

The Eye and his own will kept that part of him existing, pinned there, as the Lonely dug its tendrils of fog into the rest of him, snagging everything he was, bit by bit. 

He did lose most of it, after long enough, even though he prayed and prayed to a god he had barely begun to understand.

But then— _then_ , after so very long, the pressure of the Eye dimmed, and with it, a crack appeared, in the very foundation of the place he was held. Through it, he realized, he could sense him.

 _Jonah._ In another time, in another body, Barnabas found him. Barnabas couldn’t do anything to him, yet, but it was enough to let the spiders have their fill, as Jonah moaned and writhed. 

Let him feel it, he’d thought. The sting of betrayal. The agony of being cut off, cut away, from the only thing he loved now—his precious Eye. 

But it wasn’t enough. Barnabas still _ached._ With the weight of existence, with the heat of his fury. And the Eye, the _Eye_ still burned down at him, piercing like a sun, and he wanted to blot it out, bleed it dry. 

He hated it with a burning fury, more than he’d ever hated anything in his life, and that fury...

It was all he had. He couldn’t remember anything else. 

Now, though...the Eye was ready to close. He could feel it. The blessed relief of that piercing weight fading away. 

A gentle hand brushed his cheek, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked down, blinking, to see that servant of the Eye, his own eyes wide, frightened by encroaching death. 

Good, he thought, viciously. Let him go. Let the Eye finally close.

The man seemed to be trying to speak, his mouth working soundless under the blur of the Stranger. No matter, he thought. He looked down at the bloody glass shard beside him and the seeping wound in the man’s chest. 

He blinked. His own hand was pressed against the wound, as if to staunch the blood flow, and he stared at it, at fingers that didn’t quite seem right. And then—

Then a golden thread flickered weakly between them—between him and the unfamiliar man below—like the dying flicker of an ember in a fire. It passed directly through his hand, and he felt—

He felt love, he realized. So much genuine love it took his breath away, love stowed away in gentle, caring touches and soft looks when he thought no one was looking. The thread was imbued with it, steeped with it like tea, every sentiment wrapped up in utter, devastating devotion for—

For... 

He stared at the golden thread, tears spilling over his cheeks, as he thought, oh. _Oh._

He’d forgotten what love really felt like.

His fury bled out of him in an instant, like a candle snuffing out.

And when he took a shuddering breath, he was Martin Blackwood again. 

"Jon," he breathed, and of course it was Jon, it was always Jon, how had he ever forgotten...Martin's eyes flicked up to look at him.

And Martin _saw_ him.

And the world exploded in a sudden, blinding light from the book above them, bursting with power shifting from the Stranger to the Eye. 

And the Eye opened wide. 

Nikola screamed, and Martin could distantly hear gasping and mumbled confusion, but his eyes were still screwed shut from the brightness of the light, only now fading, his heart beating fast in his ears. 

It was almost too quiet for a moment, save for the sounds of shifting rubble and the sound of suddenly even breathing, so close to him that Martin couldn’t help but desperately hope...

A gentle hand brushed over his cheek, and Martin opened his eyes. 

A man stared back at him, with shoulder length hair shot through with silver, and warm brown skin and stubble and high cheekbones and deep brown eyes. Martin catalogued it all with a dizzying kind of confusion, and a distant, niggling sense of familiarity. And the expression on the man’s face...it was so openly adoring Martin forgot how to breathe. The man blinked at his attention, brow suddenly furrowing, and then he looked behind himself, wide-eyed, and in Jon’s voice admonished, “Martin, Christ, don’t look, I don’t have my—“ He cut off though, realization hitting him quickly, as Martin’s own realization was washing over him. Those big brown eyes blinked at him. “You’re looking at me,” Jon said numbly.

Martin nodded wordlessly, feeling breathless, incredulous, disbelieving. 

“You can _see_ me,” Jon breathed. 

Martin laughed breathlessly, a smile stretching his face. “I can see you,” he echoed. Then, swallowing around the sudden lump of emotion in his throat, “I can _see you._ ”

Jon’s breath left him in a rush, his lips parting, his eyes widening, and Martin could _see_ it, every flicker of disbelief and incredulity and relief and _love,_ the sheer love that he saw in Jon’s face when he looked at him was enough to take his breath away. 

Because he could, he surged forward and kissed him, relishing the surprised huff of breath and the way Jon’s arms wound around him, leaning closer so he could keep his balance. 

A wolf whistle sounded from behind, and when Martin turned to look he saw Tim and and Basira as they were before, whole, themselves again. Tim’s face was split with a shit-eating grin, and Basira looked just shy of rolling her eyes. 

Nikola was gone, Martin realized. Undone under the full weight of the Eye. And Barnabas...Barnabas was no longer tied to an existence that ached, alive in memory and memory alone. Like a distant dream of a life Martin had forgotten he'd lived. 

"Are you alright?" Jon asked him, his gentle hands cradling Martin's face, brown eyes skirting over his expression.

"I think so," Martin breathed, a little incredulous of the fact. He felt...he felt like himself again. Martin looked over Jon, eyes catching on the spots of drying blood. "And you're no longer full of holes?" Martin asked hopefully.

Jon looked down at himself. "I think so," he said, glancing back up at Martin, a growing smile on his face. It was just as beautiful as Martin had always imagined it. "Suppose we have the Eye to thank for that. I have missed being mildly indestructible."

Martin huffed a laugh, so breathless with relief and love he felt like he could fly. 

"Awww _,"_ Tim said from behind them. Tim didn't bother to hide his shit-eating grin when Martin glared back at him. "You two are _so_ cute."

“Can we not have a _moment,_ ” Jon grumbled at him. 

But then a familiar voice chimed in. “No, you can’t, Sims,” came Melanie's voice. Martin spun around, eyes wide, to see her gingerly picking her way through the rubble just through the open doors of the Archive, hanging on their hinges. Sasha— _Sasha,_ as she was supposed to be, with her dark skin and long, curling hair—entered behind her. Tim's eyes widened, and then he launched himself at her, full speed, practically tackling her into a hug. 

"You're here," he heard Tim say, his voice trembling, muffled into her hair, "You're here, and it's not even dawn yet."

Martin stared at Melanie, slowly getting to his feet, crossing the room toward her. “No one is having a moment,” Melanie continued her little tirade, “until someone explains to me what the _fuck_ just happ—" She cut off with a huff of breath when Martin marched up to her and gave her a bruising hug of his own, his hands shaking a bit against her back. 

"Oh," she said, her hands settling on his back a moment later. "So we're, uh. We're doing this, that's fine that's—" Her head tilted a little, then turned away sharply. "Christ, Martin, you smell awful—“

"Shut up," he mumbled into her shoulder. "You smell like mud." He pulled back a little after a moment, studying her face, muddy and dirty but without a scratch, her eyes that lovely dark brown again. "How did you...?"

"Don't really know," Melanie admitted, with a half shrug. "I was...gone, for a bit and then there was this...light, and then I felt something calling me back. And then I was _me_ again, and I looked over and there was Sasha, just looking at me, wide-eyed. Normal again."

Martin breathed out, overwhelmed, looking over the others. Looking at Sasha who had made her way over to Jon, his face cradled in her hands as they stared openly at each other, smiling wide. At Tim, whose wide, teary eyes never left Sasha for a moment, and Martin thought, might never look away again. At Basira, who approached Jon with what looked like a genuine smile on her face when he reached out a hand to her. 

It was all so...perfect. Far better than he'd ever hoped. 

"Seriously," Melanie muttered, eyeing him sideways, her shoulder bumping his. "I mean, I really didn't think this would end well for us. What gives?"

He sighed. "Can you not jinx it—"

"I'm not _jinxing it—_ "

"I think," Martin interrupted, looking at her, "I think the Eye is... _grateful_."

She blinked at him, mouth opening and closing, seemingly at a loss.

"Yeah!" Tim called abruptly, looking at them, brows raised. "It _better_ fucking be."

Martin huffed a laugh, matching Tim's grin and watching as his fingers interlocked with Sasha's. 

"Hold on," Melanie murmured, "are you telling me that an _eldritch fear god_ is indebted to you?"

Martin couldn't quite contain the smug smile on his face and Melanie snorted at it. "No way."

"Weirder things have happened!" he exclaimed, grinning at her.

"No, they have not," she grumbled, but she was smiling. She took his hand in hers, and squeezed it, once.

And everything, for once, was utterly perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear dear readers--there will be an epilogue, so we can have some time to enjoy these lovely characters when they're not a second away from death. Next chapter, Jon and Martin get to be somft, but we also get to see exactly what repercussions (if any), come out of this chapter ;) ALSO a surprise visit from one of the characters in this who has a descent role, and yet hasn't actually gotten any "screen time" yet...points if you can guess who
> 
> Also I have fallen in love with the sheer potential for Martin/Melanie friendship in writing this and canon has vindicated my feelings, like YES Jonny they have so much potential!!!! God if Martin wasn't so busy trying to be lonely in season 4 they could have been SUCH GOOD FRIENDS, such good snarky sarcastic friends and so I said you know WHAT?? They are now. You're welcome.
> 
> Thank you all for reading <3


	27. Into the silent land; hold me by the hand

When Martin woke, he woke soft and comfortable and warm. An arm was slung around his middle, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Jon, his face still slack in sleep. The sight of it still managed to take Martin’s breath away. 

He drank it all in, every detail. The way Jon’s hair was mussed against the pillow, the grey streaks a stark contrast against the black. The way his mouth was slightly parted, his even, deep breaths just barely audible. The slight dip in his nose. The way his dark eyelashes twitched in sleep. 

Martin thought he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“What?” Jon grumbled, suddenly.

Martin’s grin widened when Jon opened an eye and looked at him. “What?” he parroted back.

“You’re _staring,”_ Jon said pointedly, his voice rough with sleep. 

“I’m allowed,” Martin said, tucking himself closer to him, settling his chin on Jon’s sternum. 

Though Jon rolled his eyes, his arm wound further around Martin and kept him close. 

“You’re beautiful,” Martin told him, grinning when he saw a distinct flush on Jon’s cheeks.

“I am _not,”_ Jon mumbled, face flushed dark.

Martin leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, reveling in the way Jon sighed lightly and his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Have I ever told you,” Martin said softly, looking down at him with what he was sure was an utterly besotted expression, “that I love your nose?” He punctuated this with a kiss to the bridge of Jon’s nose. “Or your eyes?” he murmured, leaning down and gently pressing kisses to Jon’s eyelids when he closed them, breathing out shakily. “Even your forehead, though it’s a little big—”

“Hey!” Jon exclaimed, his eyes shooting open, his face the picture of offense.

Martin grinned, managing to peck a kiss to Jon’s forehead before Jon managed to squirm away. Jon huffed, trying and failing to hide away his smile when he narrowed his eyes at him. “The _vanity,_ ” Jon said. “Is that all then?”

“Oh, but I’m sure I’ve already told you,” Martin said, primly, wrapping his arms around Jon’s middle. Their noses nearly brushed. Jon looked back at him, the look in his lovely brown eyes very soft. 

“Tell me again,” he murmured.

Martin’s smile softened into something smaller, as he looked at him. “I love you,” he said, watching Jon’s eyes crinkle at the corners like they always did when he smiled. 

“I love you too,” Jon said, his voice practically a whisper, with how gently he delivered the words. 

And for a moment, they just looked at each other, each of them devoted to cataloguing every perfect moment, every note of the other’s voice, every freckle and wrinkle and line.

* * *

It was strange, staying in the estate after that. Sasha and Tim left fairly soon after that night, when the world turned right again. Tim especially had wanted to leave the estate before the Eye decided to tighten its hold again. They took up residence in the village with some of the money Elias—or Jonah, rather—had stashed away. Basira and Daisy left soon after, now that Daisy was no longer called to guard the perimeter.   
It was bittersweet, saying goodbye to them. They planned to go further than Tim and Sasha, but Martin understood why. The estate had tied them all together, but where he had been there for just half a year, the others had been there for far longer. He could understand the urge to finally get away. 

Still, he was grateful for the invitation Daisy extended to him and Jon before they went, with a wink and a wicked, “don’t be a stranger,” that had Basira scoffing in disbelief and giving her a light shove.

Melanie dropped in and out, but less so, once she’d gathered up the courage to knock on Georgie’s door again. 

When Martin asked her about it, an uncharacteristic flush crossed her face, and she started stuttering with a soppy smile crossing over her face, so Martin supposed, all in all, it had gone rather well.

It hadn’t taken him long to realize, though, that things wouldn’t be all easy. He remembered the first time it had happened was the morning after their eventful day, after some very long hours spent blissfully sleeping the past horrors away. He and Jon had sleepily made it to the kitchen and Martin started to make tea, when Jon mentioned something about going to wake Melanie through a yawn, drifting out of the kitchen. Martin spent the next few minutes finishing the tea, but gradually, couldn’t help but realize that, other than the noises he himself was making, it was so very quiet. And then, he realized, it felt almost a little too cold, and even though he could _see_ the golden strands of the Web around him, some primal fear that wasn’t quite his abruptly took over, settling deep under his skin. 

He couldn’t help but think how very alone he seemed. Would Jon ever come back? What if Jon wasn’t even _real,_ and Barn— _Martin_ was still in—

What if...

He didn’t know how long he spiraled in that panic. Only knew the tea had gone cold when Melanie and Jon found him, huddled in the corner, struggling to breathe.

Jon didn’t leave him alone much, after that. Though part of Martin wanted to give him a good shake and beg him to stop coddling him, the other part of him couldn’t help but be ridiculously grateful. The touch of Jon’s palm to his or the small of his back, or Jon’s arms wrapped around him, paired with the warm tones of his voice always seemed the best way to ward off the chill.

“Maybe you two should get out of here,” Melanie said to him, a few days later, over tea (that _he_ was sure to have made, though Melanie had been very begrudging about the decision).

“Yeah,” Martin agreed after a moment, rubbing at his eyes. His Lonely dreams hadn’t exactly stopped, and now, seemed to persist even when Jon was beside him. “Maybe.”

“No, I mean, _especially_ you, Martin. When’s the last time you’ve been to town?”

Martin looked down at his tea. “I haven’t yet,” he murmured.

“What was that?”

“I haven’t yet,” he sighed, looking up at her. “Alright?” 

“Why not?” she asked, frowning. “It’s way nicer than it used to be, now that people are finally beginning to believe the world is normal again.”

Martin sighed again, absently stirring his tea. “I’ll have to go to the hospital eventually,” he said quietly. “See what happened to her.”

“Oh,” Melanie said, after a moment.

“We already had a plot paid off and everything. Because of how bad she got, so she’s probably...” he trailed off, mouth twisting. “I just haven’t found it in myself to go,” he said.

“Makes sense.” Melanie breathed out roughly. Studying his face, she added, “really though. You and Jon should get out of here eventually. Go somewhere. I don’t think it’s good to linger here long.”

Martin thought on all the memory tied up in this house, how he’d linger on parts of the estate now and his memory would take him back more than a century. Sometimes, his eyes would catch on the phonograph in the library or that empty space on the wall where Jonah’s portrait had once taken up space, and he’d be taken over by such an ancient sense of sorrow. 

“No,” he said softly, “probably not.”

“So what’s keeping you?” Melanie asked, after a beat. “You haven’t even made plans.”

Martin looked up at her, opening his mouth to answer, but found when he did, the words that came to his throat were warm, buzzing with purpose. “I’m waiting for someone,” he found himself saying. Melanie blinked at him, and Martin blinked back. “They’ll be here in a few days,” he added.

Melanie stared at him for a beat longer, and then barked a laugh at his expression. 

“Sorry,” Martin murmured, fighting a grin of his own. The little insights the Web liked to drop on him had become far more frequent after Barnabas. A few times, he had gotten a little kick out of parroting Jon’s words at him a moment before he’d say them. The subsequent annoyed silent treatment didn’t really last long.

“You’re a side show attraction,” Melanie told him, grinning.

“I’m sensing great irritation in your future,” Martin deadpanned. He then kicked her shin under the table.

Melanie gave a little cry of mild outrage, glaring at him and reaching down to rub her shin. “You little shit,” she grumbled.

He grinned at her and took another sip of his tea.

* * *

The next day was a day of funerals. They took what remained of Barnabas’ body from Jonah's office. They buried him under a tree, just outside the outskirts of the estate. Barnabas had liked to read under it, Martin knew. When the weather was nice.

He wasn’t sure which part of him started crying—the part of him that was Martin Blackwood or the distant part of him that was Barnabas Bennett. But when Jon’s arms wound around him and held him, he just let himself feel it, burying his face in the curve of Jon’s neck and shoulder. All that deep sorrow and also, strangely, the feeling that finally, finally, Barnabas had a proper ending. 

He’d thought he wasn’t going to cry for his mother. He looked down at her gravestone later that day, thinking only that he was grateful he’d had the foresight to buy the plot, to settle the arrangements before she’d even been in the ground.   
She would have hated him for it, he knew, if she’d been at all herself near the end.

“Alright?” Jon asked him, his voice soft and cautious as he looked over at him. His thumb brushed gently over the back of Martin’s hand where he held it, a steady, grounding motion.

Martin swallowed and nodded, but didn’t draw his eyes away from the inscription. “Yeah,” he answered hoarsely. But something in his breath hitched, catching in his throat. He blinked, his face screwing up for a moment. 

“Martin?” Jon asked, his voice so very soft. 

“I always told myself I hated her,” he whispered, his voice trembling. 

“But?” Jon prompted, after a moment, when the rest got stuck in Martin’s throat.

Martin took a trembling breath and admitted, voice thick, “I think I just thought that would have been easier.”

When he turned into Jon this time, only a few tears fell. This also felt like a kind of ending, one he’d always expected, and he supposed, in a way, that made it worse. He rested his chin on Jon’s shoulder as his arms wrapped around him tight, breathing in the scent of him, mingled with the brisk Spring wind, and watched the leaves dance in the trees at the edges of the graveyard.

* * *

“Have you ever wanted to go to Scotland?” Jon asked, abruptly, when they were sprawled over each other on the couch in the library, reading. 

Though, Martin supposed, Jon had been under the pretense of reading, and likely hadn’t actually been for a while now. Martin had noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that though Jon was looking down at the book resting on Martin’s legs where they were sprawled over Jon’s lap, he had failed to turn a page in the last 10 minutes. 

“Scotland?” Martin said, when he blinked at Jon and realized he was still waiting for an answer. “I...I’ve never really thought about it. Never had much money to go anywhere far.”

Jon nodded and looked away, cheeks flushing. Martin squinted up at him, a smile playing on his face. “Why...?” he asked, raising a brow at him.

Jon shrugged, a smile twitching over his face. “Nothing.”

Martin narrowed his eyes at him. “Not _nothing—”_

“No?” Jon asked, pseudo-innocently, looking down at him.

“Jon,” Martin admonished, laughing. “ _Why_ do you ask, love.”

Jon shrugged, smiling absently. “I was just wondering if you’d like to go,” Jon said, his cheeks flushing a little again. “With me,” he added, as if that wasn’t utterly obvious. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?!” Martin echoed, amused. “Jesus, Jon.”

“I just think a change of scenery might be nice!”

“Oh, been talking to Melanie, have you?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Jon said, raising his brows at him. “I would have thought you’d be pleased by that.”

“What, that you’re no longer squabbling like children? Congrats, you’re an adult now.”

“Martin,” Jon said, a bit more seriously, looking at him with a bit of concern. 

Martin sighed, looking away. “I know,” he sighed.

“It would be good,” Jon said.

“I know.”

“And we deserve it.”

“I _know._ ”

“Then, what—”

“I’m scared.” Martin blurted out. “Alright?”

He watched the surprise on Jon’s face morph into something softer. “Why?” he asked gently.

Martin sighed, looking down at his book, watching as the words went a little blurry. “I just...sometimes it’s hard for me to believe this is...real? Like...like if I’m out there for too long, it’ll all dissolve away and then you’ll be—then I’ll be—” he cut off, his throat closing around the word. _Alone._ More quietly, he admitted, “so many of Barnabas’ memories are tied up here, and...he’d hide in them, in the Lonely. Bury himself in them trying not to forget and I know—“ he scoffed a little at himself, but it came out choked. “I know it sounds like a self-fulfilling prophecy, if I’m scared to go out, but I just can’t help but think...what if I leave, and then this isn’t—and you’re not...?”

He knew it was irrational. He _knew_ it. But even the idea was so terrifying he thought he’d be content never stepping outside again.

Jon set his book aside, leaning closer to cup Martin’s cheek with his hand. “Martin,” he said softly, meeting Martin’s eyes intently. “I know how hard it is to accept, that something has actually gone...right. I’m not used to it either,” he said, leaning closer, pressing their foreheads together. “But I’m here. I’ll always be here. I promise. In fact, you’ll have a hard time getting me to ever leave,” he said, smiling when Martin gave a weak huff of a laugh. “It’s you and I. Together, alright? I’ll hold your hand all the way to Scotland if you want, if it helps.”

Martin felt his face flush. “Jon.”

“I’m serious!” Jon said, and, as if to punctuate this, he took Martin’s hand in his. “Really,” he said softly, “I will spend every minute of the rest of my life showing you that you’re not alone, if you need me to.”

Martin swallowed around the lump in his throat, blinking when his vision went a little blurry. He squeezed Jon’s hand. “Okay.” Then, as if to cement this fact for himself, he let his eyes roam over Jon’s face, and murmured, “you’re here.”

“I’m here,” Jon echoed, softly. He leaned in, pressing a feather light kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth. “And you are not alone,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to Martin’s cheek before drawing back. 

Jon still hadn’t gotten into the habit of schooling his expression, and Martin hoped he never would. Because he could see every hint of Jon’s love for him in the softness around his eyes, the gentle hint of a smile at his mouth, the way he looked at Martin like he would be content never looking away. 

They’d just returned to their books when someone used the knocker on the front doors, the sound echoing through the hall. 

Jon frowned, putting his book in his lap. “Tim and Sasha weren’t planning on visiting yet, were they?” he asked Martin.

Martin frowned, about to confirm that, no, they weren’t, when he froze and realized exactly who was at the door. “No!” he said to Jon, when it looked like he was about to get up to go answer it. Jon stilled, his brow furrowing in confusion, watching as Martin shot up. “I’ll get it.”

Jon’s frown intensified. “You—?”

“I’ll get it,” Martin repeated, trying for a smile but finding it may have looked a little too wide.

Jon stared at him as if he’d grown two heads. 

“Just,” Martin said, edging his way to the library doors, “sit.” Jon’s expression did not once change as he slipped out the doors.

Martin hurried to the entrance, palms sweating. He took a moment to steady himself, looking at the door, taking a few deep breaths, before he took the handle and opened it. 

Annabelle Cane smiled at him, with her dark red lips, eyes twinkling. She was dressed imperiously, as she always seemed to be, in what was practically a gown, black and billowing in the Spring winds, a long brimmed hat tilted on her head. “Hello, Martin,” she said. Her eyes flicked to look behind him. “Hello, to you as well,” she said, and Martin cursed inwardly, glancing back at Jon to see him staring, wide-eyed. When Jon glanced at him, Martin widened his eyes and mouthed “ _be polite.”_

When he looked back at Annabelle, her smile had widened, as if she’d caught the whole thing. “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”

Martin heard Jon’s intake of breath and hurriedly said, “not at all.” And then, on instinct, he asked, “tea?”

She smiled at him.

Tea was...incredibly awkward, though Annabelle didn’t seem to be affected by it at all. Martin tried to make strained small talk, adding little opportunities for Jon to jump in, but he never did. Jon just watched Annabelle warily like at any moment she was likely to spring across the table at them.

Once he ran out of tea to serve, and debated whether or not he should leave Jon alone with Annabelle to make more, Annabelle spoke, cutting through his frantic train of thought. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go soon—“

Jon shot up. “I can walk you out,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for the moment all day, and Martin fought a sigh.

“Actually,” Annabelle said, “I was hoping to speak with Martin a moment.”

There was a tense staring match between them, in which, really, it only seemed tense on Jon’s part. Annabelle merely looked back impassively. 

“Jon,” Martin said, drawing his gaze. “It’s okay. We’ll just be a minute.”

The line of Jon’s jaw tightened, as he looked between them, brow furrowed. 

“Jon,” Martin said softly, placating.

Jon stared back at him for a moment, visibly conflicted, but finally he shut his eyes briefly and said, pointedly, “I’ll just be in the next room,” looking at Martin, giving Annabelle a brief glance before turning away. 

Martin blew out a shaky breath when Jon closed the door, thankful he hadn’t said anything too harsh. Thankful he hadn’t said anything that might inadvertently offend the Web, because they’d learned the hard way how badly that could go. 

“He’s very fond of you,” Annabelle observed mildly, her gaze drawing away from the door and to him, eyes twinkling. 

Martin swallowed, trying to carefully parse out an answer. 

Annabelle must have seen the mild panic on his face, because she quirked a perfect brow at him. “Relax,” she murmured, and, admittedly, the smile on her face was a small, friendly thing. “I didn’t come here to scare you. I came here to...thank you I suppose.”

Martin stared at her, taken aback. “You— _thank me?”_ he asked, incredulously. He looked down at the table, then at his hands, then back up at her. “Why?”

“Because,” she said softly, “many of us thought the Eye was beyond saving. And you’ve proven otherwise.”

“And you were among them?” Martin asked slowly, parsing it out himself.

“I was...undecided,” she settled on, her eyes bright when they looked at him. “What Jonah Magnus did was not something easily forgivable. And yet.”

Martin frowned. “I didn’t _forgive_ him,” he said.

She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. Her eyes drifted to the door Jon had left through, lingering there, before looking back. “But something tempered Barnabas’ anger.”

Martin swallowed dryly. “Yes.”

Her smile quirked. “Something in the shape of an Archivist?”

Martin studied her face carefully before responding, but he found no tricks there, no traps to fall into. “Yes,” he said. “Is that what the Web...expected?”

It was her turn to take her time considering this, settling back in the dining chair. “It’s not something many of us would have bet on,” she admitted, eventually. “But perhaps that’s why it worked.” She paused for a moment, then said, “there is a great simplicity in fear. And there is a great simplicity in love. And the two do not coexist well.” He stared at her, taken aback by what almost sounded like warmth in her voice. 

He blinked up at her, when she stood, as if to actually take her leave, and he found himself blurting out, “what—what did the Web really want?”

She looked at him, her brow furrowing. “Want?” she echoed. “The Web—the _Mother_ doesn’t _want_ anything but the desires of her children.”

“And when those desires conflict?” Martin asked, after a moment running this through his mind.

Annabelle smiled. “They often find ways of resolving themselves,” she said, “as you’ve seen.”

“But,” Martin couldn’t help but ask, even though voicing it made his throat close up, “I know you say the Mother doesn’t...want, but if the Stranger _had_ succeeded in killing Jon...?”

She shrugged. “Then the world would have changed. But since it would have been through the Web that the Stranger gained power, it _would_ be the Mother in control, make no mistake.” Annabelle paused and said, with complete conviction, “the Mother does not orchestrate outcomes in which she loses.”

Martin stared at her, a bit horrified. “So...what, _we_ would have been fine, while the rest of the world suffered?”

“Yes,” Annabelle answered simply. “That is not to say,” she continued, when she saw Martin’s face, “that that would have been a world most of us would have been keen on. I speak for the majority when I say we much prefer the world as it is. But in the Mother’s eyes...a world in which we are all whole is synonymous to a world in which we are all happy.” 

“That’s...” Martin searched for a suitable word and, pathetically, settled on, “sad.”

She shrugged. “It’s more love than some of us have felt,” she said simply, brutally. 

Martin stared at the table between them, processing. He looked up, when Annabelle moved around the table toward him. “You have great potential,” she said to him. “Great potential for the sight that not all of us are gifted. The Eye is fond of you, after all. A few of us,” she said slowly, pointedly, “are not far. If you were interested in nursing that potential.” 

Martin looked up at her, mouth opening to respond, when he felt the familiar feeling of being watched. He snapped his mouth shut, shutting his eyes for a moment. _Oh Jon._

Annabelle raised a brow as she glanced back at the door, and any hope that she wouldn’t notice flew out the window. “He worries for you,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Martin rushed to tell her, “He means well—”

She raised a hand, cutting him off. “I understand,” she said. Her smile then was a wry thing. “I imagine the answer is no, then?”

Martin opened his mouth to respond, and found himself saying, “we’re actually going to Scotland tomorrow.”

She blinked at him. “Scotland,” she echoed, quirking a brow,

Martin nodded, and then blurted nervously, “might see some good cows,” and immediately wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Her smile twitched. “Well,” she said, eyes bright, “in that case, I suppose I’ll leave you two to packing.”

“Right,” Martin said, breathlessly, after a moment, trying to hold back a sigh of relief.

At the door, she turned to him again, looking pointedly. She studied his face for a moment, before seeming to understand something, finally meeting his eyes. “I trust you understand how to feed, when you need to?”

“I...uh...”

“Use the Mother’s gift,” she cut in, not unkindly. “The sight, the compulsion. Use it to control, do not let the urges control you, do you understand?”

“I—yes?” Martin squeaked. “I—I think so, I—”

“Good,” she said. And then, more softly, “Your Archivist understands what it’s like. In the beginning. He’ll help you.”

Martin stared at her, and found himself saying, “he prefers Jon.”

Her smile widened, as if they were sharing a private inside joke. “I don’t think he’d like me calling him that,” she said. “Especially not the way you do.”

And with that, before Martin could think of something else to say, she turned and walked away. 

He stared after her for a few moments, then winced at the noise of the door banging open as Jon burst into the foyer. 

“I’m fine,” he assured Jon.

“What did she want?” Jon asked, taking his hands and looking him over anyway, making sure she hadn’t...

Martin really didn’t know what Jon thought she may have secretly done to him, but he let Jon look him over anyway. 

“I think...I think she wanted to say thank you?” he said.

Jon frowned at him. “What?”

“That’s what I said.”

Jon frowned harder, looking out at Annabelle’s retreating figure. “I don’t like that.”

Martin huffed a laugh, and Jon looked a little offended, which made him laugh harder. 

Jon spluttered, “Look she’s—”

“I know,” Martin told him softly.

“You just have to be careful,” Jon said, still a little petulantly.

“I know,” Martin murmured, smiling softly at him. 

“What?” Jon asked, after a moment. “Do I have something on my—“

Martin leaned in and kissed him, gently, soft and lingering. Jon returned the kiss easily, that tension leaving his shoulders, but when they pulled away, he did grumble, “don’t think we’re done talking about this.”

Martin huffed a laugh, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He loved the brief flush that never failed to appear in Jon’s cheeks when he did. “Fine. But for _now_ ,” he murmured, “we have to pack, don’t we?”

Jon blinked at him. “What—really?”

“Yes,” Martin answered softly, watching as Jon’s smile widened. His hand settled in Jon’s as they made their way to their bedroom. “Do you have a place to stay in mind?”

“Oh—Daisy offered her cabin, since she’s not using it.”

“Daisy? Um, what was she using it _for?”_

“Look, I _did_ ask, and she says any bloodstains have long been scrubbed away—”

“I’m _sorry?!”_

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Martin.”

“Very romantic idea you’ve had here, Jon—”

“Look, it’s _right_ smack in the middle of the countryside, and Daisy says the cows come _right_ up to the windows.”

Martin went quiet, for a moment completely enamored by that image.

Quietly, triumphantly, Jon said, “I knew that’d be the selling point.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“I’ve missed my calling as a realtor—”

“Shut up, Jon,” Martin laughed.

* * *

Jon did end up holding his hand all the way to Scotland, though Martin told him over and over he didn’t _actually_ have to. But it was...nice, he had to admit. Grounding. Kept him so close to Jon that they often bumped shoulders and it was an easy thing for Jon to bring his hand to his lap when Martin rested his head on Jon’s shoulder on the train. Every stroke of Jon’s thumb against the back of his hand, purposeful, gentle motions, seemed to say _I love you. I’m here. We’re here._

Martin had stopped trying to insist he didn’t need hand-holding very quickly.

The cabin was lovely, and Martin maintained it was because of the cows. 

It wasn’t really about the cows, of course, but Martin couldn’t let himself be a bleeding romantic all the time. 

Though...maybe just for a little while. They deserved it, after all.

Perhaps the best thing about Scotland was that it was real. As real as Jon’s hand in his, the warmth of it, the comforting weight. 

The Lonely didn’t bother him once. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And cue every possible safehouse fic in existence sans the existential dread or looming end of the world because Jonah Magnus is very dead and will stay that way. And they will be HAPPY. I like to think Jon and Martin decide to take up a pretty permanent residence in Scotland. Daisy won't mind.
> 
> If anyone's curious, the title of the last chapter is from the poem "Remember" by Christina Rossetti. It's a sad poem, and I think it works really well for Barnabas tbh. But the title of this chapter is part of that poem, but altered a bit. Because this isn't a sad ending anymore 😉 It's a lovely little poem, so check it out if you're interested.
> 
> And that, my friends, dear readers, is the end of this particular journey. I'm sad it's over but also...really proud. This is the longest thing I've ever written, and I really tried for an ambitious plot, and I like to think I've done it justice. Thank you to everyone who commented, or gave kudos, or, really, interacted with this fic in any way--you've kept my motivation high through the process, and kept me excited, so thank you all. I hope you enjoyed. ❤️


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